


Exit Light

by Dragonflies_and_Katydids



Series: Dawn [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, D/s, Depression, Dominance & Submission, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, POV Cullen Rutherford, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 13:19:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 77,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3489692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen struggles with his lyrium addiction.  Some days are better than others.</p><p>Or (if you prefer a silly summary for a not-so-silly fic): In which Cullen is suicidally depressed, Dorian is a high-functioning alcoholic, and Bull just wants them both to be happy, except when he wants to crack their heads together for being emotionally stunted idiots.</p><p>Spoilers galore, particularly for Cullen's, Dorian's, and Bull's personal quests.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Violent Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> The story is all in Cullen's POV, so while Bull/Dorian is definitely there, it's not as central as the other tagged relationships. Just throwing this out there so no one gets to the end and is disappointed. :)
> 
> The work title is from Metallica's "Enter Sandman." It seemed appropriate, and it's what was playing when I first had the idea for this story. Clearly, it was meant to be!
> 
>  ~~I have no idea how long this is going to end up, or how long it's going to take me to need that "explicit" rating~~ [apparently, 22 and 4 chapters, respectively], but it'll get there eventually. You've been warned (or, I promise)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where sighs and groans and shrieks that rent the air  
> Are made, not mark’d; where violent sorrow seems  
> A modern ecstasy; the dead man’s knell  
> Is there scarce ask’d for who; and good men’s lives  
> Expire before the flowers in their caps,  
> Dying or ere they sicken.
> 
> _Macbeth_ , Act 4, Scene 3
> 
> I'm pretty sure it's against some rule to use references to Metallica and Shakespeare in the same story, but oh well.

For a man who has faced both an entire tower of possessed mages and a Knight-Commander driven insane by red lyrium, Cullen finds he's embarrassingly afraid of a blank piece of paper.

Well, it's not completely blank. "Dear Mia" is written at the top, but that was the easy part, even with the way his hands shake these days. He's grown accustomed to passing off any task that requires a steady hand, and he's grateful the Inquisition has reached the point where he has his own clerk, but he can't claim that lack of practice with a pen is what's stopping him now.

He also can't honestly say he has nothing to write about. The problem is, in fact, the opposite: too many things he could say, and not a bit of it anything he wants to share with his sister. Much of it's Inquisition business that wouldn't interest her anyway, but the parts she would care most about are the parts he least wants to tell her.

For the tenth time, he puts pen to paper and tries to think of something that won't frighten her with problems she can do nothing about, or be so brief that it makes her throw up her hands in disgust. Separated by too many miles, he can still hear the exasperated sighs in her return letters.

> _Dear Mia,_
> 
> _Given all the problems we've been having with the red templars, I thought it best if I stopped taking lyrium. It hasn't been easy, and I'm having a hard time controlling my temper._

No.

> _Dear Mia,_
> 
> _Do you remember how glad you were that I'd left the templars? Well, I thought I should continue what I'd begun, so I've stopped taking lyrium. I want to claw my skin off, I can't sleep, and I spend most of every day swinging wildly between the need to kill someone and the desire to weep._

Definitely not.

> _Dear Mia,_
> 
> _I stopped taking lyrium, and now it's all I can think about. Except for last night. I got myself a whore, and when she touched me, all I could think about was hurting her, and the more she feared me, the more I liked it._

Maker's breath, _no_.

Cullen drops the pen and puts his head in his hands, taking two fistfuls of hair as if he can pull a letter out of his head by force. A letter he can send, that is.

"Sir?"

His clerk is standing in the doorway looking at him warily, and Cullen is embarrassed, not for the first time, by all the emotions he can no longer master. There's never been a witness to those rare moments when he loses control completely, but Mairyn is almost constantly in his company, and the woman is no fool. Before she was a clerk, she spent her time on the battlefield, and she must recognize how close to the edge Cullen is walking.

"Sir?" she says again. "You asked me to remind you that you wanted to review the troops before supper."

"Yes, thank you," Cullen says, eager to grab any excuse to put off the letter for another day. Guilt holds him in place, though, and he picks up his pen once more. "Just let me finish this."

> _Dear Mia,_
> 
> _The Inquisition is going well. I'm still alive._  
>  _Your loving brother,_  
>  _Cullen_

She'll want to reach across the miles and remedy the "still alive" part, but that's all right. He almost wishes she could.


	2. Acquainted with the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been one acquainted with the night.  
> I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.  
> I have outwalked the furthest city light. 
> 
> I have looked down the saddest city lane.  
> I have passed by the watchman on his beat  
> And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain. 
> 
> I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet  
> When far away an interrupted cry  
> Came over houses from another street, 
> 
> But not to call me back or say good-bye;  
> And further still at an unearthly height,  
> One luminary clock against the sky 
> 
> Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.  
> I have been one acquainted with the night.
> 
> Robert Frost, "Acquainted with the Night"

Down in the camp, Cullen circles wide around the officers' tents, careful not to draw attention to himself. This isn't a formal review, everyone prepared and standing in neat rows, all the problems swept out of the commander's sight. There's a time and a place for that, of course, but here and now is neither. It's always educational to wander through the camps without warning his subordinates, to talk with whoever he sees and not with the perfect specimen selected to stand at attention and bark out memorized replies to his questions.

He was a soldier once, and even if he was a templar, it isn't the cards and the wine he cares about. Nor does he care about the whores he sees whisked out of sight as soon as anyone realizes who's approaching: Mairyn has spoken with the camp's healers at length, and Cullen trusts he won't find his entire army infected with the Orlesian disease. So long as the soldiers arrive on time for duty in the mornings, it isn't his concern how they spend their evenings. Their sergeants can manage any such problems far more effectively than he can, after all.

Cards and wine and whores mean nothing to Cullen. What he really wants is to see his soldiers' faces. The Inquisition has grown large enough that he no longer knows every person under his command, and he's unaccustomed to asking people to die when he's never once looked them in the eye. He can't learn every face, but he can learn a few.

_"Don't you worry that such sentimentality will cloud your judgment?"_ Leliana asked him a few days ago, but he believes in the Inquisition with everything he is, blood and breath and bone. He worries more about rendering thousands of people down to counters on a board, moved and discarded on a whim. It would be too easy to let the rightness of their cause overwhelm everything, as Leliana has. Talking to his soldiers reminds him that the Inquisition is more than the Inquisitor and the war table.

As he approaches the first fire, Cullen pulls himself back to the present. The soldiers there are already standing at attention, tugging their tunics straight and casting worried glances at each other. Under a log someone was using as a chair, Cullen can see the corner of a single playing card.

He stoops and picks it up. A few weeks ago he might have twirled it between his fingers, but with the way his hands shake now, he risks dropping it. Not at all the impression he wants to give. Instead, he holds the card up to the light and squints at it as if he's never played a single game of Wicked Grace.

One of the soldiers swallows audibly, and Cullen smiles at her. "Who's winning?" he asks.

"Sir?"

"Who's winning?" he repeats patiently, turning the card to face her.

Her eyes dart left and right, and she licks her lips. "Ah...I am. I mean, I was. Sir."

He assumes she does a better job of guarding her face while she's playing. "How much were you up?"

"Sir?" she says again, stalling.

"I assume you weren't wasting your time playing for pebbles."

A quick smile flashes across her face. "No, sir. Waste of time, sir, to not play for real coin, but I don't like to brag. Makes the boys jealous, sir."

This elicits a chorus of protests, most of them vulgar, and she starts to reply in kind before she remembers exactly who Cullen is and hushes the lot of them. Her face is red now, and she's staring at the ground.

He sets the card on the log; handing it off to her directly risks drawing attention to the tremors. "Well, carry on." Two steps away, he pauses and looks down at an untidy pile of chainmail, rust starting to show on more than a few of the rings.

"We were just going to clean that, sir," she says, and he nods approval, continuing on to the next fire.

Two more fires, two more groups of nervous soldiers hiding things he doesn't care about while he learns their faces, then the lieutenants and sergeants descend as they always do. He lets them escort him away from the camp, and says little. The lyrium pain is starting to creep up on him, and it leaves him short of breath, unwilling to speak more than he has to. If he's lucky, it gives him an air of calm authority rather than of indifference.

His officers have a number of things to discuss with him, "since you're here, sir," including the army's newest arrivals. This is the price for his trips into the camps, and he pays it willingly, but that still means it's nearly dark before he returns to his office. Cassandra is there already, perched on the edge of his desk, foot swinging as she flips through one of his books.

She looks up as the door opens, her eyes traveling over him from toes to head and back again. It's the same measuring look she's given him every day for the last few weeks, and he doesn't object. It's comforting in its own way, a reminder that someone else is guarding his steps. If he looks like he might fall, she'll be there to make sure he doesn't take anyone else down with him.

"I was beginning to wonder if I should come looking for you, " she says, setting the book aside. "Someone told me you'd gone down to the camps, but I didn't expect you to be gone so long."

"Neither did I." He shrugs off his coat onto his chair, bending sideways until his spine pops. "Nearly a hundred chevaliers came in last night, deserters from the Freemen."

"Deserters from the deserters?" she asks scornfully.

A tip of his hand acknowledges her point as he begins to put on his armor. "Which is why I wanted to speak with them, to see if they were opportunists merely attaching themselves to the side they thought most likely to win."

"And are they?" It's clear what she thinks, and he doesn't entirely disagree.

"Some are, but I think most truly want what they say they want: to see all this petty squabbling ended, and their families safe." The buckles on his armor are giving him trouble, and he pauses to focus on his hands. Once his greaves are in place, he adds, "They thought the Freemen offered that, until Corypheus bent them to his own ends."

"Easy to bend cowards and oathbreakers."

"Corypheus has bent a lot of people. Was Lucius a coward? Or the Grey Wardens?"

She grimaces, likely remembering Adamant and the Fade. "No. Foolish, and too easily led by their fear, but not cowards."

"Not all of that fear was for themselves. They thought to do a great service to Thedas."

"And free themselves of the Calling." She pushes away from the desk and comes to help him with the last buckles. "They stood to gain a great deal as well."

Cullen doesn't argue, because he mostly agrees with her. He withstood temptation when it was offered, and he was far younger then than Clarel was when she succumbed. What holds him back from complete agreement is the knowledge that in the long run, the demon who tempted him would have succeeded. He had already started to slip before he was rescued, and it's small comfort to know that he resisted when he also knows how flimsy that resistance had become by the end.

He can almost hear that demon, even now.

_Someone else,_ he reminds himself. This is his daily prayer, and he's said it dutifully for most of the last ten years, as dutifully as any chanter reciting the Chant of Light. _All of that happened to someone else._ Because if he lets himself think otherwise, he'll crawl under his desk and never come out, and Corypheus will win.

His armor in place at last, both inside and out, he follows Cassandra to the practice yard. Most of his soldiers will be eating supper, but there are always a few running errands around Skyhold, and they're eager to watch their commander fight. Cullen has grown accustomed to having an audience when he practices with Cassandra, though he still has to remind himself occasionally that he's not required to out-fight men who were born while he was already in training to be a templar.

With a dulled practice sword in his hands, facing a fully armed and armored Cassandra, Cullen can finally let slip a little of his anger. He pushes himself, and appreciates that Cassandra pushes back just as hard. She grants no mercy, acknowledging each "kill," hers or his, with the briefest nod before she attacks again.

The sun has long since set, their last few bouts made more difficult by the flickering of torchlight, when Cassandra finally lowers her sword. "Enough," she says, and Cullen forces himself to relax his guard and take a tight grip on his temper once more.

His entire body aches: bruises and strains and tired muscles, all combining into a glorious pain that lets him ignore the burning under his skin from the lyrium. He feels better than he has all day, and so tired he might actually sleep. As he pulls his helmet off, he takes what feels like his first full breath in since he woke this morning.

The soldiers watching now are not the same ones who were watching when they started, and Cullen realizes with a jolt that some of Bull's Chargers are looking on, the Iron Bull himself leaning against the fence that surrounds the training ring. Cullen isn't quick enough to look away before Bull catches his eye and grins.

"Another round, Commander?" Bull asks.

"Not tonight," Cullen says, removing one gauntlet so he can wipe sweat from his forehead before it drips into his eyes.

"My boys enjoy a good show," Bull says.

"You and Krem will have to give them one, then."

At Bull's right, Krem grins and rocks from heel to toe in excitement. "C'mon, Chief," he says. "We can go a few rounds."

Bull laughs and steps into the ring with his lieutenant, slapping Cullen on the shoulder on the way by. For his part, Cullen holds back a sigh of relief as he leaves the ring to the Chargers. Time spent in the company of the Iron Bull is not comfortable for Cullen. It tends to stir up thoughts that undermine his idea of who he is and what he wants, and lyrium withdrawal is all he can handle right now.

###

That night he dreams of Kinloch Hold, and not for the first time. Before the lyrium kept him awake, his memories could do a fine job all on their own.

In the dream, _she's_ there, as she always is. Only it's not really her, it's the demon wearing her face, whispering things to him that she never said, making promises she never made and could never have given even if she'd wanted to. A mage and a templar? Nothing good would have come of it, not for either of them. In the best of all possible worlds, they would have enjoyed each other's company in secret until they grew bored. In the worst, she would have been made Tranquil and he would have been cast out of the order, shamed and lyrium-addled.

The demon taunts him with both possibilities, showing him her face in the emotionless peace of Tranquility, then her face in a moment of ecstasy as she rides his cock. He hears her voice rendered toneless, and her voice breaking on his name in the heat of passion.

He wakes in his bed, in Skyhold, fear and desire and anger combining to make him shudder in waves he can't stop. And yet, if it's possible to be bored and terrified together, that's exactly what he is. This same nightmare has tormented him for so long that even as it chases away any possibility of sleep, he can't help but demand why his mind doesn't produce something _original_ , just once, after all these years.

His reaction is as unoriginal as the nightmare itself. Beyond the fear and anger that make his heart race, his cock is aching, and he can almost taste her mouth. With a muttered curse, he flings one arm over his face and reaches down with the other hand to stroke himself quick and hard as he sinks into the memories. False ones, of course, because nothing that happened between them in real life is half so interesting as the demon's illusions, not when she only had to smile at him to send him running, flustered and embarrassed.

True memories or not, he wraps them around himself for a little while, remembering her legs around his waist, her mouth against his neck, his cock buried deep inside her. More recent, truer memories slide together with the old and false, and his thoughts skip from her to the whore he nearly hit a few nights ago. The whore's fear, the memory of her terrified face, is the last straw, sparking a flash of something that might be pleasure or might be pain. Either way, it's over quickly, and he stumbles out of bed to clean himself off while his head is still spinning.

He doesn't bother going back to bed, knowing it would be pointless to try to find more sleep tonight. If he's stroking himself, then he can lie and pretend it was her, but if he lets the silence in the room go on too long, the rest of the memories will creep in around the edges and he won't be able to ignore them.

_Someone else, not me._ The start of a new day, and so time for his daily prayers. _It happened to someone else._ It's so much easier to keep faith in that prayer when he's surrounded by people, and not alone in the quiet darkness. In just the few minutes he's been standing here, the smell of blood and rotting corpses has started to tease his nose, and he can feel the electric hum of the demon's prison around him.

_Not me._

He closes his eyes and imagines the whole thing written out on paper, some poor bastard's report to the Knight-Commander, shown to new recruits to teach them what happens when mages are left unchecked. Not anything to do with him personally, and certainly not in his handwriting.

_It happened to someone else._ He repeats it firmly as he dresses and lets himself out onto Skyhold's wall.

The keep is as quiet as it ever gets, and the guards stationed at intervals nod to him as he passes. A few weeks ago, they gave him strange, half-wary looks, unaccustomed to seeing anyone but their relief at such an hour, but his midnight walks are now as much a part of their routine as the bell tolling the hour.

Other than the guards, he passes no one, until eventually he finds himself at the tower the Inquisitor gave over to the mages. It has little enough in common with Kinloch Hold, seeing as it can't even properly be called a Circle tower, but he goes in anyway. The repairs are barely finished, the wood of the door still unweathered and a little sticky under his gloved hand. The stairs are just as new, and the room smells of green wood and new mortar. This is the first time he's been inside this tower since his initial survey of the keep, when all he could do was look up at broken staircases and more bird shit than it seemed possible they could wash away in a year. He's never been to the top.

As the commander of the Inquisition's army, isn't it his responsibility to know every inch of the fortress he'll be called on to defend?

No one is inside to mark his climb, all the bustle and activity that keeps it humming during the day gone silent. The only sound is the creaking of the stairs and once, his quiet curse when his foot catches on a box left in the middle of the floor. He shoves the box aside and keeps climbing, all the way to the top where the wind is clean and vicious.

The Inquisitor's tower is taller, but otherwise, this is the highest point in Skyhold and the view is incredible. All around him, the mountains curve up and the sky curves down, snow and stars blurring together at the edges where they meet. If he stands in one particular corner of the tower, he can look out and see part of the army, camped in the valley below. Half unwilling, he folds himself down into the gap between two crenellations, back against one and feet against the other, the tower roof to his left and nothing but open air to his right.

The stone around him is properly stone-like, cold and solid, but no matter how hard he presses back against it, it does nothing to stop the shaking that runs through him, so intense he doesn't understand why the entire wall isn't shuddering. If it can't steady him, the least it could do is shake in sympathy. The wind is as cold as the stone, sharp with snow, but just as the stone can't force his body to stillness, the wind can't soothe the burning ache under his skin. Knowing that the pain isn't real doesn't help.

_It's all in your head,_ he reminds himself with black humor, and really, that's the problem. He could deal with an apostate or a demon, almost wishes there was one in front of him now so he could take his sword to a problem he knows how to fix. Though if it's going to be an apostate, it needs to be one he's _allowed_ to stab, which excludes a vast number these days. The Inquisitor is starting a collection.

_"My home for wayward apostates!"_

Cullen didn't find the joke amusing in the warm comfort of Skyhold's hall, and he doesn't find it amusing now, sick and shaking on the cold wall. Still, fairness requires him to acknowledge that his current problem can't rightly be blamed on any of the apostates currently serving the Inquisition. He supposes he could blame it on mages in general, if that weren't a little too abstract for the middle of the night.

No, the blame lies squarely on his own shoulders, and he knows it. His choices led him to this place, in every literal and figurative sense: to the Inquisition, to Skyhold, to the top of this tower, to the shaking and burning that's all in his head. This isn't anything his sword can solve, not when the problem is inside him, in his blood and his breath and his bones.

He wishes desperately for a distraction, any distraction, except perhaps Corypheus himself. Anything has to be better than waiting for dawn while his ribs shrink slowly around his lungs, stealing a little more of his breath every minute. He's moved past exhausted, into a strange place where everything is crystal clear and impossibly distant.

The pain isn't the worst of it, not after all his years as a templar. He has almost fond memories of instructors and superiors shouting at him that pain is a gift from the Maker: it tells him he's still alive. It's the shaking he hates, that constant reminder that he no longer has control over himself. He's trained for years, destroyed his body in a dozen ways both magical and mundane, and none of it matters. Those years of training are now worse than useless.

Those years of training are now the problem.

He leans out into the wind, one hand and one foot braced on the inside of the wall. That gap between snow and stars sings to him. What would it feel like to fall into empty air? What would they think, those poor unfortunates who find his mangled corpse? Would his body even be recognizable at the end, or would they identify him by process of elimination, when they couldn't find him the next day? Would they find his body at all, or assume he'd deserted his post?

Shame steals what little breath the lyrium and the wind have left him. To allow anyone to think him a deserter is...not unthinkable, because he's just thought it, but as gut-churning as the thought of _her_ , made Tranquil.

He retreats from the top of the tower, stumbling down ladders and stairs in such a daze it's a wonder he doesn't kill himself by accident. Down in the courtyard, he turns in a slow circle, considering his choices before he marches himself to the hall and finds a seat by the fire. The hall is the one place in Skyhold still active despite the hour, and it takes no effort at all to get Varric started on a story about Hawke. Cullen hears maybe three words in ten, but he knows how to laugh or shake his head at the right moments by reading the cues on Varric's face. The story doesn't matter, only that he's not alone where his weakness can pull him under without warning.

As soon as the sky has grown light, he excuses himself and goes in search of Cassandra. This has gone on long enough. She promised she wouldn't let him do this, wouldn't let him hurt the Inquisition with his frailty. She needs to keep that promise now.

When he finds her, of course she doesn't agree, and of course the Inquisitor somehow gets involved, and of course the simple question of picking his successor becomes the two of them trying to convince him there's nothing wrong. Cullen would suspect Cassandra of planning the whole thing, except that he knows her mind doesn't work like that. Leliana would plan it without blinking, but Cassandra is too straight-forward for such a plot.

There's far too much talking, then. Talking with the Inquisitor, and talking with Cassandra, and somehow, at the end of the day, Cullen is still commander of the Inquisition's army. The Inquisitor's support is touching, inspiring even, and it reminds Cullen why none of them, none of the ones who began the Inquisition, stand at its head now. When the Inquisitor leaves him, Cullen feels like he might actually succeed in freeing himself from the lyrium.

That feeling lasts until dark, and then, somehow, he finds himself on top of the mage's tower once again, looking down at his army and praying to an absent god that he doesn't fail them.


	3. All the Uses of this World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O, that this too too solid flesh would melt  
> Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!  
> Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd  
> His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!  
> How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable,  
> Seem to me all the uses of this world!  
> Fie on't! ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden,  
> That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature  
> Possess it merely.
> 
>  _Hamlet_ , Act 1, Scene 2
> 
> One of the things I like best about this verse is that in some versions, the first line uses "sullied" instead of "solid." Both seemed appropriate for this chapter.

Every night, the tower pulls him back with its silent promise, though he never does anything more dramatic than sit between the crenellations and look down. The shame of allowing anyone to think him a deserter still means something, but it loses a little of its power every night, until he can hear the tower calling him even during the day. Sometimes when he's not careful, he pauses crossing Skyhold's courtyard to look up, or takes the long way around the wall just so he can pass by the door.

He begins to think of it as his tower, and at night it whispers to him of a way he could separate himself from the lyrium that's infected his blood and his breath and his bones. Eventually, he gives up pretending to sleep in his own bed. Instead, he climbs the tower every night as soon as the mages leave it empty, and sits between the crenellations until dawn. He dozes occasionally, despite the cold stone and the colder wind, and refuses to acknowledge his own disappointment when he wakes and finds he didn't fall off the tower in his sleep.

After a while, he begins to forget that the tower isn't really his, and isn't really private. The wind and the lateness of the hour let him keep that illusion for several weeks. No one in their right mind would spend their nights in what must be one of the coldest places in Skyhold, a castle that doesn't exactly have a shortage of cold places.

He's leaning out into the wind, one hand braced on the inside of the wall to hold himself in place, when his illusion of privacy is shattered. No matter how many times he looks, the view is always dizzying and exhilarating and tempting, and his whole attention is absorbed by the rocks below when someone speaks behind him.

"Cullen."

He was too long a templar -- too long a _Kirkwall_ templar -- to jump or cry out, but he turns and comes to his feet faster than he otherwise might. His hand goes to his sword, an instinct carved into him as deeply as the need for control, no matter how unlikely it is that an enemy would call him by name.

It's dark up here, the courtyard's torches too far away to illuminate anything, but he doesn't need light to know who's come up the ladder to join him: the Iron Bull's horns and improbably wide shoulders are obvious, outlined against the stars.

"Bull," he says, nodding an easy greeting at odds with the panicked scrambling in his head. "Come to admire the view?" He can pass off his own presence here under exactly that pretext. Why should Bull suspect anything else? It's not as if he caught Cullen standing on the wall shouting a last prayer to Andraste.

Too late, he remembers that the Iron Bull flirts with everything that moves, man or woman, and Cullen's words could be twisted around if Bull is so inclined.

Teeth flash in a quick smile. "Oh, I'm admiring the view all right," Bull says, in that deep voice Cullen feels as much as hears. "But I thought you didn't like it when I did. You turned me down, last time."

Cullen chooses his words and tone carefully, trying for cool detachment that doesn't cross into condescension or derision. He has a great deal of respect for the Iron Bull's talents as a leader and a fighter, and no desire to alienate him. Josephine is the diplomat, though, and in the end he settles for "I prefer my partners be a little more discriminating."

"Where's the fun in that?" Bull asks with a laugh. He circles the trapdoor to join Cullen in the corner, glancing at the army spread out below them in the valley. "And besides, what makes you think I'm not discriminating?"

All good intentions aside, Cullen can't hold back a snort of disbelief. "Because you never turn anyone down?"

"And that means I'm not discriminating?"

"You can't possibly find all of them attractive."

"Why not?" Bull looms over him without trying, no threat in his posture.

However relaxed Bull stands, Cullen isn't a small man, and he doesn't like looking up to talk to anyone. He wonders, briefly, if this is how Varric feels when he stands next to Cullen. "No one finds everyone attractive."

It's too dark to make out Bull's expression, but the tilt of his head is obvious. "Maybe no one _else_ does," he corrects. "But that means something's wrong with _me_?"

Cullen opens his mouth, then closes it without answering. How did they end up here? Of all the things Cullen doesn't want to discuss with the Iron Bull, sex is very near the top of the list. There are too many things Cullen wants, and is afraid of wanting, and wouldn't know how to ask for even if he somehow moved past that fear. Any conversation that forces those thoughts closer to the light is high on his list of conversations to avoid.

Truth be told, the only thing higher on the list right now is, "Why Cullen's standing on top of this tower in the middle of the night."

Caught between two impossible subjects, Cullen's mind goes blank, and that blankness leaves room for the thoughts he's trying to avoid. Bull is standing close, close enough that Cullen can feel the heat from his body in pleasant contrast on face and hands chilled by the wind, can smell clean sweat and warm skin and old leather, can hear Bull's steady breathing.

"Did you need something?" Cullen asks. He tells himself he wants to move away, put a reasonable distance between them, but his body doesn't move. Hardly surprising, given how many times it's turned traitor in the last weeks. One more betrayal can only make him wearily disappointed.

"I was checking on my boys, and I saw you," Bull says. His voice is conversational, as if he's not standing so close that anyone looking up at them from the ground could be excused for thinking they were doing something other than talking.

Cullen waits for Bull to go on, and when he doesn't, he prompts, "Did you need to talk to me?" No one climbs all those stairs for no reason.

Bull shrugs and says nothing else, nor does he move away. Cullen wants to shout in frustration but only clenches his jaw for a long moment.

"Well," he says when the silence is nearly as bad as the lyrium, "it's late. I'd best get to bed."

He feels like a lodestone pointing north, drawn toward Bull by some force of nature no one can explain, but he inches backward until he passes an invisible boundary line and he's no longer fighting himself for every step.

His hand is on the ladder when Bull speaks. "I heard an interesting story last week."

"Oh?" Cullen says with the bare minimum of interest. The quicker Bull's told whatever tale he climbed up here to tell, the quicker Cullen can be rid of him. Maybe he can even have his tower to himself again, rather than spending the rest of the night staring at the canvas stretched across the holes in his roof.

"A story from a whore," Bull says.

Cullen's skin ices over, the wind suddenly warm in comparison. "Oh?" he says again, clinging to his tone of barely controlled boredom.

"She said the commander of the Inquisition's army hired her a few weeks ago, but he didn't seem too happy with her. There was a moment, she said, where she thought she was going to die, even though he didn't hurt her."

"Shit." The word slips out before he can stop it. He hesitates, but there's no point in pretending now, so he adds bitterly, "I suppose it was too much to hope for, that she'd hold her tongue." He feels a stab of guilt even as he says it, as he finds himself blaming her for his weakness.

"Whores talk," Bull agrees. He's turned to lean against the stone so he can face Cullen, but the light is no better from this angle and his expression is still hidden. "Let's be honest, _people_ talk."

"Let's not be honest," Cullen snaps, and Bull's answering laugh only serves to anger him. His skin is tight: wet leather stretched out for a drumhead. His chest is hollow enough for that, certainly.

"Because lying helps?" Bull asks.

"Because that truth serves any purpose beyond undermining me with my soldiers?"

"At least she won't say you couldn't get it up," Bull says, still obviously amused. "All the soldiers I've met? That's the story you don't want getting around."

The despair that gripped him earlier is proving excellent fuel for anger, turning all his fear and self-disgust outward. Only when his knuckles begin to ache does he realize he's taken a hard grip on his sword hilt, though at least the blade is still sheathed.

"That's the worst part of it," Cullen says, and every word scrapes his throat raw on its way out. "The more afraid she was, the more I wanted to fuck her. The more I wanted to give her something to fear."

"Scared you, did it?" Bull sounds interested, but more as if asking Cullen's opinion on a sword than if the thought of beating a woman aroused him.

"Of course it did!" Cullen can't move, can barely breathe, but more words slip out. "I stay away, now. From all of them." He's changed his mind. This is now the thing he least wants to discuss with the Iron Bull, or anyone. He'd rather talk about throwing himself off the tower, even if it does bring another little chat with the Inquisitor.

"You know," Bull says, oblivious to Cullen's struggle, "giving up sex isn't healthy. Might be contributing to some of that stress."

"So you're telling me," Cullen manages to grind out between his teeth, "that what I need is a good fuck? That'll make everything better?"

"Fuck no," Bull says with that same easy laugh. He crosses the tower again, back to the ladder and Cullen, where he once more looms in the darkness. His voice is low as he says, "But you do need a distraction."

"Did you miss the part where I almost killed the last 'distraction'?"

"I'm a lot harder to kill than the average whore."

Cullen tries to punch him. It's not a conscious decision, and even as his fist is in motion, his brain is screaming at him. If he wanted to hurt Bull, he'd use his sword, and if he doesn't want to hurt him, why is he doing this? None of which slows his hand in the slightest.

The punch misses as Bull twists away, and Cullen's wrist is suddenly trapped in a hand large enough to cover most of his forearm. His attempts to break the hold end with both of them down on the cold stones of the tower's roof, Cullen's arms pinned to his sides, Bull's weight crushing him from shoulders to knees. Bull's head is tucked down into the crook of Cullen's neck, one horn against the back of Cullen's head preventing him from moving even that much.

For one of the few times in his life, he's completely, physically helpless, but the panic doesn't come. He's not afraid of Bull, only of the thoughts Bull stirs up in his head, and even like this, he knows Bull isn't going to hurt him. Given that Cullen swung at him with little warning and less reason, Bull's done an admirable job of incapacitating him without doing any real harm.

A memory floats up from the depths of his mind: his first set of good armor. Not the practice armor the newest recruits shared between themselves, and not the inherited set he was allowed to claim as his own when he'd proved he could take care of it. The first set of armor made for him, built around his body and fitted to him by a master armorer. Even the best plate armor limits mobility a bit, but good armor doesn't chafe while it does so. He remembers how it felt, the first time he fought in that new armor: the way it made him feel invulnerable, like he could do anything, fight anyone, win any battle. That was an illusion, especially against an opponent who could crawl inside his head, but the Cullen of memory didn't know that yet.

Lying on the cold stone beneath the heat and weight that is Bull, Cullen feels an echo in his bones of that invulnerability, that feeling of safety. His surprise drives it out almost as soon as he's aware of it, and he snaps, "Let me up," to hide his confusion. Bull rolls away without protest or comment, a small surprise compared to the larger one still tumbling through Cullen's head.

As he gets to his feet, Cullen suddenly remembers they're right beside the open trapdoor into the tower, a tower anyone could wander through. While it's unlikely someone would decide to visit the workroom in the middle of the night, it only takes one person woken with a sudden inspiration he has to try _right now_. If Cullen doesn't want to discuss the whore and her story with the Iron Bull, he absolutely doesn't want to do so with an audience. Andraste's mercy, anyone who hadn't already heard the tale would hear it before breakfast was finished, with whatever outrageous embellishments people wanted to add.

Not that the tale needs embellishment to make him cringe. At least his reaction to being pinned is his secret, even if someone is listening down below.

The potential for eavesdroppers pushes him into motion, and he slides fast down the ladder, rather than climbing down one rung at a time. A bad habit he's learned from the Inquisitor, but at least he doesn't pick up any splinters, or land in a crowd of spectators. The topmost room is completely empty, actually, and Cullen manages to draw a full breath of the tower's air, tasting elfroot in the back of his throat.

He doesn't give Bull a chance to catch up with him, taking the stairs two at a time until he's on the wall. His pulse and his breathing are both too fast, and he has to work hard to control at least the outward signs of his agitation until he's safe in his office. For a few minutes, he blinks at the familiar surroundings as if they're completely new, but eventually he drags himself up one more ladder and into bed.

His bedroom is colder than normal: one corner of the canvas "roof" has broken free of its mooring. Cullen lies in bed and stares at the flapping cloth, feeling much the same himself. Something inside him gave way when he wasn't looking, and now he's twisting in the wind. Who feels safe when pinned under the not-insignificant weight of a full grown Qunari?

He tries to remember if he's had a reaction like that in the past, but he can't think of any time he was in a similar situation. A large child, he grew into a large man, and with a templar's training to back it up, he's so rarely at a physical disadvantage. At some point, during some practice, someone almost certainly pinned him down, but with a dozen recruits looking on and shouting insults and encouragement, he would hardly have had time to feel anything except embarrassment for losing a fight. At Kinloch Hold, he was helpless in every way that mattered, but he can hardly compare the Iron Bull to one of Uldred's demons.

He trusted his fellow recruits, but none of them were strong enough to hold him for long. Uldred's demon could hold him, but the thought of trusting it was and is ridiculous.

 _"You need a distraction,"_ Bull said, and Cullen barks out a laugh to the empty room. There's bound to be a distraction or three in the mess spread over his desk. Or he could walk back along the wall and find out exactly what kind of distraction Bull had in mind. He can't say which he wants more: to maintain the tenuous balance he's forced on his life, or to grab with both hands anything that will keep his mind from returning constantly to his tower.

The sky through the hole in his roof is growing light before he abandons his spinning thoughts and goes down to his office to bury himself in paperwork.


	4. Frantic Mad with Evermore Unrest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Past cure I am, now reason is past care,  
> And frantic mad with evermore unrest;  
> My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,  
> At random from the truth vainly expressed...
> 
> Shakespeare's Sonnet 147

The paperwork is a wholly inadequate distraction.

For two days, Cullen pretends that it's working just fine, staying away from the tower and Bull as best he can. The first day, Cassandra gives him an odd look when he begs off their regular practice. The second day, she folds her arms over her chest and gives him a look like she's trying to see under his skin.

"Are you well?"

He rubs the back of his neck, frustrated in more ways than one. "If I say no, will you finally choose my replacement?"

"No."

"Then I'm fine."

She snorts, a very Cassandra snort, and leaves him alone for the rest of the day. She'll be back, though, and he can't avoid the practice ring indefinitely. That means finding a chance to talk to Bull without a dozen people looking on. One conversation will make this right, because whatever he felt, Bull didn't seem affected by any of it. They'll talk, it will be the same stiff and awkward banter as always, and Cullen will be able to stop thinking about Bull's weight on top of him.

Or so he tells himself at midnight, when he's standing halfway between Bull's door and the door to his tower. The tower is by far the more attractive option.

_Next,_ he promises himself. _Talk to Bull, and then you can go to the tower._ He wishes he was wearing his armor, but he isn't going back to his room for it, no matter how comforting it would be. The sword-belt he's wearing instead of his usual sash is narrow enough that he can curl his fingers all the way around it. He grips it tightly for a second, the edges of the leather digging into palms and fingers, then he settles the sword, tugs his shirt straight, and marches toward Bull's room.

It isn't until he's already knocking on the door that he realizes he missed an important step: inventing a reason to call on anyone at this hour. There's no time to think of something, or to slink off, before Bull opens the door.

"Evening, Commander," Bull says, as if midnight visits from Cullen are a routine part of his life.

While Cullen's mind reaches for an excuse to be here, his mouth goes off on its own. "The other night. On the tower-" He chokes off the rest of it, appalled.

Something changes in Bull's face, and Cullen is suddenly angry at himself. Not caring what it looks like, he turns on his heel, only to be brought up short by Bull's hand on his arm, pulling him around.

There's a brief scuffle, during which neither of them says a word. Cullen isn't prepared to draw his sword, and without it, he's no match for Bull's strength. The fight is over almost before it's begun, his arms pinned over his head and Bull's thigh between his pressing him against the wall. They've ended up inside the room somehow, though Cullen doesn't remember going through the door, so at least they're not out on display for everyone passing by. It's about the only positive thing he can see in the situation.

Or rather, it's the only positive thing his conscious mind can see. His body is more enthusiastic about the whole thing, his cock half hard against Bull's thigh, the burning in his skin an odd counterpoint to that first flush of arousal. It's not entirely unpleasant.

Despite that, he tries to free his hands, and when he can't, something inside him uncoils, that same something that brushed against his awareness two nights ago. This time, it doesn't dissipate, and he's finally able to put words to it. If his hands are trapped, he can't hurt anyone. If his hands are trapped, he's not responsible for what happens. It shouldn't feel safe, but it does.

Cullen closes his eyes, shame and exhaustion and desire chasing each other inside his chest until he's ill. He wouldn't have thought it possible, but there's no room for his anger, shoved aside by the rest of his emotions. Every fantasy he's ever denied, shied away from even in his own head, crowds forward to parade across his closed eyelids.

Without releasing Cullen's wrists, Bull takes hold of his face, thumb and fingers pressing into his cheeks. It's a firm grip: not painful, but nearly impossible to escape with the wall behind him. Cullen is aware of every sensation: the pull in his shoulders from the position of his arms, the rough boards tugging at his hair, Bull's calloused fingers on his face.

The kiss comes as a surprise, a brush of lips that shouldn't affect him but does. His mouth opens on an involuntary gasp, and he breathes in the air Bull is breathing out.

It's an exploratory kiss, Bull's tongue touching lightly on his upper lip and the corners of his mouth without ever moving deeper. Pinned as he is, Cullen has few choices. He ignores the voice in the back of his head inventorying those choices: he could close his mouth for starters, or bite, or kick. Bull's cock is conveniently placed for Cullen's knee, and size ceases to matter when his attacker is vomiting on hands and knees from a blow to the groin.

Though he has to scratch that last one off the list when Bull's thighs tighten around his. There's no way he could get the necessary force behind a blow. That unexpected something in his chest uncurls a little more, even as the rational voice in his head continues to provide him with options for escape.

Cullen tries to ignore that voice, taking none of its suggestions. Instead he waits, lips parted, for each touch of Bull's tongue, inhaling each time Bull exhales. When Bull's tongue traces the scar that cuts through his upper lip, he sighs. He hates himself a little for the sound, but he can't stop it.

Eventually Bull leans back, shifting his weight without releasing his hold, and says, "Look at me." Pressed chest-to-chest as they are, his voice vibrates through Cullen.

Cullen keeps his eyes closed, unable to bear the thought of doing otherwise. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he can ignore the rational voice, but if he opens his eyes, reality will kick him in the teeth. His anger is waiting to grab him by the throat again, he knows it.

The grip on his face tightens to just short of painful, and his head is shaken back and forth. "Look at me," Bull repeats, and it's a commander's voice. Cullen is more used to being on the other side of it, the one bellowing commands at disobedient soldiers, but that doesn't stop it from going straight to his gut.

He opens his eyes.

Bull is so close there are two of him, and Cullen blinks, trying to move his head to clear his vision. His head stays exactly where it is, hard against the wall, but Bull seems to understand, leaning back a little farther until Cullen can focus on him.

"This is the only rule," Bull says, and his one good eye is locked on Cullen's. "If you want me to stop, you'll say 'katoh.' You can shout 'stop!' and 'no!' all you want, but until I hear you say 'katoh,' I'm not going to take it seriously."

Cullen can't look away. He can feel his pulse in his fingertips, and his mouth is dry. He's sweating as if it's the middle of summer in the Wastes.

Bull squints critically at him. "Repeat it," he says. "I want to know you know it. Katoh."

It takes him three tries before he can get his mouth to form the right shapes, but eventually he manages to whisper, "Katoh." He clears his throat, parched as it is, and says again, a little louder, "Katoh."

"Good." Bull smiles. "The next time you say it, whatever I'm doing, I stop, and you can leave if you want." His fingers are cool on Cullen's face, just beginning to warm from the contact. "And whether you stay or you go, no one else will know what happens here."

There's a pause then, as Bull looks at him and Cullen looks back, waiting. After a moment, he realizes Bull is giving him a chance to say the word and do what he's told himself he wants to do: leave.

It isn't easy to nod from his current position, but he manages a small dip of his chin, his head twisting a little against Bull's hold. Bull's fingers dig in, crossing over briefly into pain, pain that shoots straight to his groin. His hips are nearly as restricted as his head, but they rock forward the small distance allowed to them, grinding against Bull's thigh.

Bull releases him and steps away, perhaps the biggest surprise so far. Uncertain, Cullen stays where he is, dropping his arms to fold them across his chest while Bull moves around the room, lighting more candles from the single taper that was lit when Cullen knocked.

From the far side of the room, Bull says, "Take your clothes off and lie down on the bed."

No commander's voice this time, just a quiet, conversational tone that wouldn't be out of place at the supper table. He might have been asking Cullen to pass the salt, not to strip naked in preparation for Maker-knows-what.

The wall is feeling safe, now, much safer than the bed and whatever happens next. Cullen's fingers are digging into his upper arms, and his mind is spinning in useless circles.

Bull lights another candle without looking at him and says, "You know how to end this. If you stay, _you do what I say_." The last words have a snap to them that jolts Cullen into motion, even as that distant and rational part of him wonders what he's getting himself in for. Does Bull's command apply outside this room?

That could be more than awkward later, except that Bull is the Inquisitor's to command, not Cullen's. He ignores that rational voice again and does as Bull ordered.

His hands are shaking worse than ever, and it seems like every buckle and clasp on his clothes fights against him. He's only just managed to free his sword belt by the time Bull is finished lighting candles.

The sword presents its own problem. He was taught too much respect for a good blade to simply drop it on the floor, but there isn't really anywhere else to put it.

"I'll take it," Bull says, and Cullen looks up, surprised to find him standing just out of arm's reach, not all the way across the room where he was last time Cullen looked. How can anyone so large be so silent?

"Give it to me," Bull says, holding out his hand for the sword.

Cullen almost balks. Handing over his sword goes against every instinct he has, especially when fear is crowding his lungs.

Bull is as fast as he is silent. His hand is in Cullen's hair, yanking his head back painfully, before Cullen even realizes he's moving. "Last warning," Bull growls into his ear. "You obey, or you leave."

Pain crawls across Cullen's scalp, little pricks that leave him breathless. When there's a tug on the sheathed sword, he doesn't try to hold on to it. It slides from his fingers, the belt following after, and Bull lets him go to carry the sword across the room. Cullen watches him covertly, reassured to see the sword laid gently on top of a chest in one shadowed corner of the room. He's less reassured when Bull slides the belt free of the scabbard's loops and tests the leather by slapping the end against one palm.

"Are you still dressed?" Bull asks, deceptively mild. His back is to Cullen, who scrambles to do as he was told.

He folds each piece of clothing as he removes it, childhood training he doesn't even think about until he's laying his trousers on top of the pile.

"Templars," Bull mutters with affectionate disdain. He's leaning against the wall on the far side of the bed, fully dressed (or as fully dressed as he gets) and watching Cullen with a smile. The belt is coiled around one of his hands, buckle inside his fist.

Self-conscious, Cullen covers his groin with both hands before he can think.

Bull's smile widens. "I'm going to see a lot more of you than that before we're done." The words are so low they're barely audible from across the room, but Cullen shivers, and not from cold. His hands go from covering to stroking, one palm sliding up the length of his cock.

"That's mine," Bull says, and Cullen's hand freezes, fingers just beginning to curl around himself. When Bull points at the bed with the hand not holding the belt, Cullen goes where he's directed.

He lies down on his back, watching from the edges of his vision until Bull says, "Close your eyes," and once more, he does as he's told.

He can hear Bull moving around the room, hear leather creaking and cloth rubbing and metal tapping against metal, but he doesn't know what any of the sounds mean. His imagination paints a hundred wild pictures, without any real knowledge to build on, each one making his cock harder. "That's mine," Bull said, so Cullen twists his hands in the blankets and doesn't touch himself, even as he can't help but shift as the muscles in his thighs clench.

When it comes, the touch on his head startles him into opening his eyes. He snaps them shut again immediately and whispers, "Sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't..."

Something (his belt?) lashes him across the stomach, just above his navel: once, twice, thrice. The marks burn white-hot for a second, before melting into the general ache of lyrium withdrawal, the ache that's been a constant part of his life for so long. For the first time since it began, he doesn't have any trouble focusing his mind on something else.

"Please," he groans, and he has to admit, even to himself, that he's not begging for it to stop.

The lash comes down again, this time directly across one nipple. He curls up without meaning to, shoulders and legs leaving the bed. Bull's hand presses on his chest, right over the mark, and pushes him back down.

That hand moves from his chest to the back of his neck, holding him still while a cloth is wrapped around his head. He can open his eyes under the cloth, but only a few slashes of light creep in at the bottom, along his nose. The shadows he can see are more confusing than enlightening, so he lets his eyes close once more.

Bull's fingernail runs up the outside of his thigh, following a scar from knee to hip with enough force to make the skin burn. At the top of the scar, Bull pauses, stroking the hollow of Cullen's hip before pushing him over onto his stomach. Cullen follows the pressure, rolling until his forehead is cushioned on his arms.

He's not allowed to stay that way for long. Without dislodging the blindfold, Bull pulls Cullen's right arm free, stretching it out and up before looping rope around the wrist to tie it to something. The left arm follows, tied in a mirror image to the right. Cullen tugs experimentally, but he can't move more than a few inches without pulling his lower body up.

That ceases to be an option as his ankles are tied as carefully as his wrists. Feet together, he notices with some confusion. Just because he'd never done anything like this before doesn't mean he's a fool. He's spent the better part of his life with soldiers of one kind or another, where men always outnumber women at least two to one. He knows the theory of how this works, or thought he did.

There's almost no slack in the ropes, and his arms are tied at an angle that holds them off the bed, putting the blankets out of reach of his clenching fists. Whatever it was inside him that found relief in being pinned has finished unwinding itself and spread through his body like honey, warm and thick and sweet.

Bull stands, but it doesn't sound as if he's moved away. There's the muted click of metal on metal that might be the buckle on a belt, if someone swung that belt back and forth a few times. His body tenses just as the first blow lands. Belt or lash, it snaps high across his back, almost on his neck, making him gasp and twitch. Down his back it goes, one clean stripe at a time, only enough of a pause between each blow for the sharpest pain to dim. By the time it's reached the top of his ass, he's panting, sucking in air in short bursts.

By the time it's reached his feet, he's pushing against the bed, driving his cock down into the mattress as best he can with his movement so limited.

One last blow against the soles of his feet, and then nothing. His ears strain for any sound as his skin cools and the new pain dies away into the old pain. Just as the last of the sting fades from his feet, the next blow comes, across his shoulders once again.

Bull makes five passes down his body, each blow as carefully measured as the first. At the end of the fifth pass, he doesn't pause but lashes out a dozen times in quick succession, all the blows landing on Cullen's ass and thighs. When it's over, his skin is tight and hot, and he can't stop the words tumbling from his lips, an incoherent mix of cursing and pleading.

Against the heat of Cullen's abused skin, Bull's hand is cool and rough as it strokes up and down his back until the shaking stops. When he's breathing normally again, the bed creaks in protest as Bull straddles him, knees pressing against his hips. One hand slides under his chest, lifting him up just a few inches, enough for Bull to reach down and wrap the other hand around Cullen's cock.

Cullen groans, and Bull leans down to put his lips against Cullen's ear. "Is that what you were looking for?" he murmurs. He doesn't move his hand, only curls his fingers loosely around the shaft. "Did you want me to stroke it? Or maybe you were hoping I would suck it? Put my mouth on your cock..." Cullen's breathing stops, and Bull pauses.

"You like hearing about it, don't you?" he says after a second. His hand begins to move, too slow but at least it's moving, as he whispers a dozen possibilities into Cullen's ear. Cullen is past speech, past groaning, reduced to hoarse gasps as he tries to breathe. For reasons he can't explain, it's all the more exciting because Bull is still clothed, his trousers rubbing on Cullen's skin as he strokes Cullen's cock and lists out all the things he plans to do with it, and with his own.

And then he stops. Completely, hand and words both, and lifts himself off Cullen, who mutters an inarticulate protest into the blankets. It sounds suspiciously like a whine, but Cullen refuses to call it that.

The bindings go slack one by one, arms and then legs, until Cullen can move for the first time in what feels like hours. Before he's done much more than flex his fingers and toes, Bull's hand is on his arm, pulling him up and off the bed. Dizzy, he staggers sideways and Bull catches him with a laugh, turning him around and tying his arms behind him. It doesn't leave him feeling any steadier, and his mouth shapes "katoh" without actually voicing it aloud.

"I've got you," Bull murmurs, hands firm on his upper arms. Blind and bound and off-balance, those hands are the only things connecting Cullen to the world outside his skin. When his head has stopped spinning, one of Bull's hands disappears, only to return and press something into Cullen's hand. "If you want to stop, drop that."

It's his belt, the buckle warm against his skin. He's still puzzling over why "katoh" is no longer enough as Bull's hands press him down.

He ends up on his knees, still blind, his hands still bound behind him, one of Bull's hands in his hair. The other hand brushes over his mouth, thumb pressing between his lips and across his tongue. He sucks on it, feeling the creases at the knuckle, tasting something bitter and sharp. The fingers in his hair tighten briefly, and Bull gives an approving hum.

Bull reclaims his thumb and puts a hand on either side of Cullen's head, fingers just meeting in the back. His cock touches Cullen's mouth and moves on, leaving a damp trail across his lips that he licks away, the same bitter-sharp taste as before. Bull hums again, thumbs pressing against Cullen's jaw until he opens his mouth wide enough to take Bull's cock.

As it fills his mouth, pressing against his tongue, Cullen finds he has no idea what to do. He's never been the one on his knees before. Teeth. He knows enough to be careful of his teeth, but that isn't terribly helpful. Worrying about it, unfortunately, starts his brain working again, and all the thoughts he's been avoiding return in force.

_What am I doing here?_

A tug on his hair gives him the answer. Bull's hands are tight, holding him in place as his mouth is thoroughly fucked, a reminder that he ceded control when he handed over his sword. Under normal circumstances, that loss of control would make him angry or afraid, but just now, it lets him give up responsibility for anything and everything.

He's very tired of being responsible.

Still blindfolded, his only points of reference are Bull's hands gripping his hair painfully tight, the hard floor under his bare knees, and Bull's cock slamming all the way to the back of his throat. Each stroke chokes him briefly, and he can only take quick breaths in the half second before his throat is blocked again. He grips the buckle of his belt until his fingers ache, not wanting to drop it by accident.

Bull is talking to him in a low voice, Qunlat words Cullen doesn't understand. Or maybe it isn't Qunlat. Maybe in different circumstances he would understand the words just fine, but all he can hear now is the tone, praising and encouraging him as Bull's cock slides over his tongue.

He isn't allowed the freedom to explore, but without vision, his other senses reveal more to him than he would have thought possible. The taste and smell of skin, the wet sound of flesh sliding against flesh, the different textures between head and shaft as Bull moves: all of it seems to go straight to his own cock. He's so hard he aches, and if his hands were free, he could stroke himself to completion in a matter of seconds.

Tugging at his bindings does no good. They're tied well, and he has neither the ability to concentrate nor the strength to break the rope, but he shrugs his shoulders against them anyway, twisting until the skin on his wrists burns. The pain of that complements the low heat still burning in the skin of his ass and thighs, and his hips thrust against nothing, his cock bouncing against his stomach. He's moaning, and he can't stop.

Pain rips through his scalp, a thousand needles driving into him as his hair is pulled _hard_. He gasps, mouth and throat opening wide, and Bull slams all the way in and stays there. Lights begin to flash across his vision, and his jaw aches from stretching so wide, and if he could lay so much as a finger on his cock, he would be finished.

The lack of air makes him dizzy, as if he wasn't already dizzy enough from the lack of blood to his head, but he's not going anywhere with Bull's hands still tangled in his hair. His spine turns fluid, muscles and joints unlocking as he begins to lose consciousness, and the belt begins to slide from his lax fingers.

Before that happens, Bull pulls back. All the way back, his cock sliding free with a wet pop Cullen can barely hear over the roaring in his ears. He drags in huge breaths through a throat that feels as if he swallowed glass, Bull's hands the only thing keeping him upright, his own hands clinging tightly to the buckle of his belt. Bull's cock is still hard: Cullen can feel it against the underside of his jaw, damp and hot.

Eventually his body remembers how to support itself, and Bull's hands relax without moving completely away. His cock is still right there, resting just under Cullen's jaw, and Cullen bends to try to recapture it with his mouth.

Bull laughs and tightens his grip again, briefly, before allowing Cullen to move. And Cullen is very aware that he's been allowed to move, been given permission to tilt his head at the right angle to touch his mouth tentatively to Bull. A small voice mocks that tentativeness: he's just had his throat fucked, and now he approaches Bull's cock like a virgin on her wedding night?

Still, it's one thing to passively accept a cock in his mouth and another to seek it out, to trail his tongue along the large vein on the underside, down to the base until all he can smell is Bull. It's the same smell from the top of the tower, a hundred times stronger: clean sweat, warm skin, old leather, and the faintest bite of metal. Cullen suspects it may be a while before he can enter the practice ring without getting hard.

He's not sure he can take Bull's cock all the way in again, but he rubs his face and lips and tongue against whatever he can reach. When he licks across the slit, there's the same bitter-sharp taste from earlier. It's one of the few signs he has that Bull is at all interested in the proceedings. Aside from being hard, Bull seems unaffected by anything Cullen does: his breathing is even, his hands steady, but his cock leaks every time Cullen licks the tip.

He sets his teeth lightly under the head, pulling as he sucks. Bull grunts and thrusts, pushing his cock halfway into Cullen's mouth, dragging against his teeth. It has to hurt, but Bull repeats the motion, and Cullen holds himself still. He remembers the belt coming down on his skin, the way the pain became something else, and bites down ever-so-slightly.

Bull tugs him off by his hair, breathing not quite so even now. Any self-satisfaction Cullen might have felt is lost in the pain of being hauled to his feet by his hair. "None of that," Bull says in his ear, as he pries the belt from Cullen's clutching fingers. "I'm not done with you yet." A hand between Cullen's shoulder blades shoves him forward. Panic seizes him as he falls, unable to catch himself or even know what he's about to hit.

The bed is such a relief that it startles a laugh out of him. He thrashes sideways to free his face from the blankets, still laughing.

He stops laughing when the belt comes down on his side in the soft space between hip and ribs. The belt falls again, somehow hitting the sensitive skin on the inside of his elbow. It bites the backs of his knees, the skin where his neck and shoulder meet, the crease between his ass and his thighs, over and over again in slow, measured strokes. It's like the pain of a bad burn in that first second when his body is confused, when the heat is icy cold, but this pain dims only to heat, not to the tooth-aching throb of blistered skin.

After the blows stop, he can only pant as his body is arranged the way Bull wants it. The Cullen of this morning would be embarrassed to be so helpless, so passive, but he's far past embarrassment now. If it means a hand on his cock, he'll go wherever Bull puts him.

He ends up on his knees beside the bed, shoulders and head on the mattress, hands still bound at the small of his back. The blindfold is gone, lost in the shuffle, but it hardly matters with his face in the blankets. He keeps his eyes closed anyway.

Bull leans over him, stomach pressing against his bound hands, and says, "I told you this is mine." He wraps his thumb and forefinger around the base of Cullen's cock, almost too tight. "You're finished when I say you're finished. Remember that."

Cullen barely has time to nod, the wool blankets rough on his face, before Bull shoves one finger inside him. It's startling, and a little uncomfortable despite whatever oil is on it, but there's none of the pain he more than half expected. After everything else, it's almost disappointing.

Then Bull crooks his finger, and it's no longer disappointing at all. Cullen gasps into the blankets, pushing back against Bull's hand, wanting more. He's begging again, words that would be incoherent even if they weren't muffled against the mattress. One finger becomes two, then three, while Bull's other hand maintains its hold on the base of Cullen's cock and Cullen clings to self-control by his fingernails.

Bull's cock replaces his fingers, sliding into Cullen in one long stroke that feels like it bottoms out somewhere around his throat. They freeze like that for a moment, until Bull switches his hands, the one slick with oil running down Cullen's shaft while his other hand grips Cullen's shoulder tightly. He's half bent over in order to reach both, his weight on Cullen's bound hands increasing the pull on his shoulders, but when he turns his head to whisper in Cullen's ear, it isn't pain that makes Cullen shudder.

"Now," he says, voice rumbling through both of them. "I want to feel your ass squeezing my cock."

The pace he sets is fast and hard, pulling almost all the way out before thrusting back in, his hand on Cullen matching the rhythm. Cullen is aware of nothing except Bull: Bull's hand stroking him, Bull's cock stretching him, Bull's breathing grown hoarse and quick in his ear. His chest and balls are both tight, and Bull's whispered "yes!" is the last thing his mind registers before he's completely overwhelmed.

It's not the brief peak he's accustomed to, a moment of pleasure that never lasts long enough. This goes on forever, pleasure that becomes pain that becomes pleasure again, feeding on itself and on the marks Bull has left on his skin, everything spinning together into a single sensation he doesn't have words for. He's falling, separated at last from blood and breath and bone, and the fall is as glorious as he hoped it would be.

The landing is as hard as the fall was long, and he slams back into his skin too disoriented to know up from down. He's only distantly aware of Bull's final thrust, of Bull's hand on his shoulder squeezing hard enough to bruise, holding him tightly in place. As if he's going anywhere anytime soon.

Bull relaxes eventually, resting his head for a moment on the back of Cullen's neck. The top of his head, where his horns meet, is rough but not unpleasant, his breath cooling the sweat on Cullen's back. For his part, Cullen is prepared to stay like this all night, so long as he can continue to not think.

He still hasn't recovered when Bull withdraws, and he's only just managed to open his eyes when his hands are untied. They flop gracelessly down, no more under his control than the rest of his body, but he's too tired to care. Rather than try to bring his arms up on the bed, he lets the rest of his body slide down until he's folded in half, forehead resting on his arms just past his knees. He barely has enough energy to flinch at the cool cloth Bull wipes over his back and ass.

What little thought he can manage mostly centers on the way he aches all over: the tendons in his shoulders, the muscles in his jaw, the bones in his knees. It's debatable whether he'll be able to talk or sit tomorrow. Even the soles of his feet hurt. On the other hand, if lyrium withdrawal is still making him shake, it's lost under the shaking brought on by complete exhaustion. Likewise the burn _under_ his skin is buried by the burn _on_ his skin, the marks left by his belt.

_I need to get up._ The thought drifts gradually to the front of his mind. _I need to get up, and get dressed, and leave._ He knows it's true, and does nothing.

Bull moves around the room, his bare feet passing in and out of Cullen's peripheral vision. After far too much careful thought, Cullen realizes he's blowing out the candles. When the room is completely dark, Bull rolls Cullen over and slides one arm under his shoulders and the other under his knees, lifting him as easily as Cullen might lift a child.

The bed groans under their combined weight, dropped on it rather abruptly. Cullen grunts as he lands, mostly on top of Bull, who isn't nearly as soft as the mattress. As Bull arranges their bodies so they're lying chest to chest with Cullen on top, Cullen tells himself to move, or at least to protest. He hasn't slept, actually slept, with anyone in...well...ever.

As a templar recruit, sex was something done quickly, in dark corners or cellars late at night, where they wouldn't be caught by the senior templars. At Kinloch Hold, he was too busy pining for the one person he couldn't have, and Maker's breath, had he ever really been that _young_? In Kirkwall, he hadn't trusted anyone enough to leave himself so helpless. And with the Inquisition, he's been too busy for anything but the occasional whore, before even that became too dangerous.

So he's never shared a bed with anyone for anything other than sex, and he didn't expect to start with the Iron Bull, of all people. His eyes are closing, though, his head turning to find a comfortable angle, and moving is more effort than it's worth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To say this chapter got away from me would be an understatement. I tried really hard not to let it turn into checklist sex, but since this is literally the second sex scene I've ever written down, I'm not entirely sure I succeeded. More practice is definitely called for!


	5. There on the Sad Height

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And you, my father, there on the sad height,  
> Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.  
> Do not go gentle into that good night.  
> Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
> 
> Dylan Thomas, "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night"  
> *******
> 
> Things everyone knows but that I'm going to say anyway...the opinions of the characters do not always reflect the opinions of the author. Likewise, what a character thinks is a good way to handle a situation isn't necessarily the way I would recommend handling it.
> 
> 'Nuff said. :)

Cullen wakes sore, which he expected, and alone, which he didn't. The solitude gives him time to gather his thoughts and try to decide if he regrets what happened last night. What he did, bound hands or no bound hands. It's briefly tempting to pretend it was all out of his control, but as he lies on his back staring at a ceiling that's in no better shape than his own, the only decision he can reach is that he isn't prepared to be a coward. If he decides that he regrets what he did, he still won't pretend it wasn't his choice. It would hardly be the only regret in his life.

_If_ he regrets it.

When no answer to that question is forthcoming, he pushes himself slowly upright, testing each muscle and joint as he moves. It's no worse than how he's felt after a particularly hard practice, and Maker knows Cassandra has given him worse bruises than what he can see. The marks across his back and the abrasions at his wrists could be hard to explain, but there's little risk of anyone else seeing them.

"Morning, Commander," someone says from behind him, and Cullen's heart stops for a moment before taking off as if to make up for lost time.

He turns to find Krem sitting in the far corner of the room, hands laced together behind his head and booted feet propped on the chest beside Cullen's clothes. The mercenary looks casual and comfortable, as if finding the commander of the Inquisition's army in the Iron Bull's bed is the least surprising thing he's seen all week.

"Good morning," Cullen manages.

They just sit and look at each other then, Krem slouched in his chair and Cullen twisted around to look over his shoulder. It's awkward, to say the least.

"You all right, Commander?" Krem asks, when it becomes clear Cullen is at a loss for words.

Cullen laughs. He doesn't mean to, it just slips out. He is the very definition of "not all right" and Krem has to know that, even if he doesn't know the exact chain of events that led to this moment. On the other hand, he may not be all right, but he doesn't feel like complete shit, and he got more sleep last night than he normally manages in three.

"I'm alive," he answers Krem at last, which is the best he can do.

"Always a good place to be," Krem says, unfolding from his chair with a creak of leather and jingle of chain mail. "Chief asked me to keep an eye on you, said he couldn't very well bolt the door from the outside, and that you'd probably prefer someone didn't just wander in."

Cullen's mind shies away from that possibility, and everything that would come after. "But he trusted you?" The question comes out more confrontational than he meant.

"You think any of the Chargers are better at keeping secrets than me?" Krem asks, apparently unoffended, and Cullen has to admit he has a point. "Either way, you're awake, and I've got drill, so..." And with a casual wave, he's gone.

After a moment to brace himself, Cullen hauls his aching body out of bed and crosses the room to bolt the door. He stands with his hand on the cold metal for a long time, testing the limits of his physical and mental discomfort. Both are less than he expected, and he's not sure how he feels about that.

His patience for self-centered introspection is limited, even when he's the one doing it, so eventually he puts on his clothes, taking a little longer than strictly necessary with his sword belt. Blindfolded as he was, he was no way of knowing if it was actually his belt that the Iron Bull used on him, but he finds himself assuming that it was, and just a little bit aroused as the leather runs through his hands.

Dressed, with his sword on his hip once more, he pauses at the door to gather his composure. Whatever happened here last night, when he leaves this room, he has to be the commander of the Inquisition's army once again. He takes a deep breath and a tight grip on his sword, and goes out to face the day, circling the wall with a brisk nod for everyone he passes, as if he didn't turn his life upside down last night.

Fortunately, Mairyn is well used to his nightly ramblings even if she doesn't know where they take him, so it raises no eyebrows when he enters his office from the door onto the castle wall rather than down the ladder from his room. By now, she'd probably be more surprised if dawn found him in his bed.

The day is both tediously mundane and entirely surreal. There are a hundred details to occupy him, all variations on problems he's seen a dozen times before, but every time he hooks his thumbs into his belt, it calls up shivering echoes of the previous night. Mairyn asks him more than once if he's cold, and the third time Cullen catches himself rubbing at the welt on his chest through his shirt, he almost growls.

Dorian, of course, gives him a narrow-eyed smirk that says he knows exactly what Cullen was doing last night. Sitting across the chess board, Cullen ignores him with the ease of long practice. Dorian smirks at the least provocation. If he really did know exactly what Cullen was doing, and with whom, he would be gaping, or laughing hysterically, not smirking. That he knows Cullen had sex with someone isn't worth worrying about.

Dorian has enjoyed baiting him from the first game they played: letting his fingers linger too long when exchanging pieces, leaning in closer than necessary to talk, adding double meaning to every third sentence. Cullen usually blushes, and rarely manages to think of a suitably witty reply in time for it to matter, but the teasing doesn't really bother him. He has siblings, after all. Dorian is no match for the cruel inventiveness of a bored nine-year-old, even if this teasing is far more adult than anything Cullen's brother or sisters ever tried.

Afternoon practice with Cassandra is normal enough, until he hears the Iron Bull laugh from somewhere among the soldiers who always find an excuse to idle nearby. In his moment of distraction, Cassandra catches him a blow to the head that makes his ears ring, and he leaves the field dazed for more than one reason. At least that allows him to stand by himself for a few minutes, rubbing his head until he feels like he's pulled himself together.

Whatever problems Cullen is having don't seem to affect Bull. He gives Cullen the same nod he always gives, claps him on the shoulder with the same amount of force, and generally pays no more attention than he's ever paid. Cullen doesn't know why he's surprised, but he's certainly relieved.

Not so relieved that he doesn't escape as soon as he can, returning to his room to remove his armor and wash off the sweat and grime from the day. Alone for the first time since he woke, he touches the welt on his chest, stroking it hard enough to hurt. It's not quite the same as his belt snapping down, but it's close, and he presses on the mark with one hand while he strokes himself with the other, squeezing his cock harder than normal as he remembers Bull's hand.

Nightmares wake him three times, but he manages to roll over and return to sleep after the first two. When the third wakes him, it's close enough to dawn that he doesn't resent getting up. Two nights of real sleep. It's the most he's gotten in a long time, and he's almost cheerful as he descends the ladder to begin his day.

###

It doesn't last, of course. It never does, and it's not anyone's fault, except maybe his own for thinking something would change. He resists the top of the mages' tower for three days, but his sleep is fragmented, and on the fourth night, he gives in. The wind is colder than he remembers, and the fires in the valley more distant. He watches until dawn erases them in a wash of light reflecting off the snow.

The old pattern reasserts itself, as he knew it would, and he climbs the tower the next night, and the next. It isn't whispering to him during the day yet, but he knows that will come soon enough. That knowledge doesn't stop him from going back each night.

A week or so later, the creak of the ladder is his only warning before he's treated to the Iron Bull's company once more. If possible, it's even more awkward this time, Cullen's memories pressing in at the edges of his awareness while Bull is as comfortable as ever. After a few minutes of stilted conversation, Cullen abandons the pretense.

"I told you it wouldn't fix anything," he says, more tired than bitter.

"I didn't say it would," Bull says, keeping up with the topic change effortlessly. He's leaning against the wall beside Cullen, who hasn't bothered to move from his seat between the crenellations. "It makes a pretty good distraction, though."

"What's the point, then? It's a fix I need, not a distraction."

"And brooding is a fix?"

"What do you think I'm brooding on? I keep hoping to find a way to make this all right."

Bull is quiet for so long that Cullen finally tears his gaze from the valley to look over at him. The Qunari is watching him thoughtfully. "This kind of brooding?" Bull says. "It feeds on itself after a while, becomes its own purpose if you let it. It's not fixing anything." He sighs. "I would know."

Tal-Vashoth. The word is there between them, unspoken but not unheard, and Cullen realizes for the first time that Bull may be the one person in Skyhold who actually does understand.

"Why did you do it?" Cullen asks, and once again, Bull has no trouble following this new direction in the conversation.

"It was the Inquisitor's decision, not mine."

Cullen gives him a look. "You could have ignored the order. You're the one who sounded the retreat."

"I could have let them die," Bull agrees, "told myself I was doing it for a good cause, to help the Inquisition and defeat Corypheus. And my boys would have followed my orders. They'd have held that hill until every one of them was dead. Not for a good cause, but for me."

Bull shrugs one shoulder. "They would give me everything, just because I asked for it. How can I do less?" He stares out at the valley, and Cullen wonders if he's seeing a Qunari dreadnought explode into twisted metal, hearing the hiss as burning pieces hit the water.

"Do they know what it cost you?" Cullen asks quietly, when he can't stand it anymore. He wasn't there, and he still doesn't want the pseudo-memory his mind has conjured from the Inquisitor's terse report afterward.

"Krem might," Bull says. "The others probably don't, but so what? Right is right, even if no one else knows." He settles on his heels beside Cullen. "Why did you stop taking lyrium? Tired of being a templar?"

"I've wanted to be a templar as long as I can remember," Cullen says, turning back to the valley. With his face turned away, he's not sure Bull can hear him, but he can't look at him and say these things. "It was everything to me. It _was_ me. But the Inquisition doesn't need a templar, and it definitely doesn't need an army commander with a weakness so easy to exploit."

"Right is right," Bull says again, and Cullen nods.

"Does it get easier to live with?"

"Some days," Bull says.

Cullen smiles at the darkness below, grateful Bull doesn't try to hand him a pretty lie. "How do you get through the other days?"

"One at a time." Bull sighs. "And by not making important decisions after dark."

"Like allowing a Ben-Hassrath spy to tie you up and fuck you?"

Bull laughs. "I said _important_ decisions."

Other than his decision to stop taking lyrium, having sex with the Iron Bull might count as the most important personal decision Cullen has made in years. Of course, that's not saying much, as he's worked hard to avoid the kind of entanglements that require personal decisions, for fear the results might touch more than his own life. Even the lyrium was as much strategic as personal.

"No important decisions after dark," Cullen repeats. "Does it work?"

"So far." Bull's touch on Cullen's head is light, but so startling it makes Cullen turn to face him once again. "You were a templar and a soldier. You know how to follow orders, even if you don't understand them, so here's an order, and a promise. This tower? Off limits to you after dark. Find me, find someone, but you don't come up here alone when the sun's down."

Cullen suspected that Bull knew the reason for his trips to the top of this tower, but it's still a shock to have it pulled out into the open. Off balance, he snaps back, "You don't give me my orders."

"Oh really?" Bull says, and somehow the tone of voice recalls the other night. Cullen hears him in memory: _"If you stay, you do what I say."_

Cullen swallows, and asks in a tight voice, "Stay off the tower after dark. What part of that was a promise?"

"That was the order. This is the promise: if you come to me in daylight and tell me you're done, I'll help you end it. No questions, no trying to talk you out of it."

It takes him a moment to understand the words, and when he does, a strange mix of terror and relief rushes through him, before he remembers..."Cassandra made me a promise like that."

"Not really. She promised she'd make sure you weren't commanding the Inquisition's army, if she thought you couldn't do the job anymore. This has nothing to do with the army. This is between you and me. I promised to take care of my Chargers, and I have, even when it made me Tal-Vashoth. You think I won't keep this promise, too?"

It's impossible that anyone could make such a promise and mean it, but the world has seen a lot of impossible things lately. Still, Cullen asks skeptically, "That's it? Just tell you I'm done?"

"In daylight. And you stay off this tower in the meantime."

Cullen tries to pin down his thoughts into something coherent, without success. Too many fragments of too many things crowd his head. After a few minutes of silence, he gives up on finding the right words and heads for the ladder. Bull follows him down, just as silent

In Bull's room, he strips down without being told, folding his clothes neatly because he can't _not_ do it, but not stalling, not this time. He ends up bent over the small table, arms stretched over his head and feet apart, tied so he can only move a few inches in any direction. Short of throwing himself sideways and trying to break the table, he's not going anywhere. He tugs at the bindings when Bull is finished tying him, and the tight, burning feeling in his chest eases when he can't slip free or loosen them.

His belt again at first, marking his back and his ass and his legs until he's thrusting against the edge of the table, the only part his cock can reach. Bull even manages to get the insides of his thighs, and those marks are still burning when he feels Bull's fingers inside him. Bull's cock replaces his fingers soon enough, and there's no pause for Cullen to adjust, not this time. Bull fucks him in hard, deep thrusts, grinding his hips down into the table until the dull ache of bruises from the table's edge joins the sharper pain from the lash marks.

When Bull is finished, he unties Cullen and sucks him off, three fingers up his ass, curling and sliding in the wetness beginning to run down his thighs. Cullen is actually a little surprised when Bull goes to his knees, but he has to admit, in those brief seconds before all thought disappears, that there's nothing in the least bit submissive about Bull's posture. Whatever their positions, inside this room Bull owns him and they both know it.

Afterward, he has just enough energy to stagger to the bed and fall into it. He's asleep before Bull's weight hits the mattress behind him.

###

Cullen wakes just before dawn, heart pounding from a nightmare he doesn't remember but can guess at, especially as his cock is hard, a few drops of liquid already beading at the slit. He wonders briefly which is more impolite: stroking himself off in Bull's bed, or waking Bull up just to solve a problem he's perfectly capable of solving himself. He's still laughing silently at himself for even thinking about such a question when hands take hold of his hips and lift him up to straddle Bull's thighs, and suddenly "problem" is no longer the right word.

Bull takes both their cocks in one hand, his own still soft but stiffening with each passing second. Cullen is mesmerized by the motion of that hand, by the sight of his cock straining against Bull's. He looks up to find Bull watching him with a sleepy smile and a half-lidded eye, and Cullen leans down to kiss him before he can think about it too much.

As Bull's mouth opens under his, Cullen realizes with a jolt this is only the second time they've kissed. It's entirely different, no soft and careful touches this time. Instead, Bull's tongue thrusts against his, and Cullen's release washes over him before he knows what's happening. Bull continues to stroke for a few more seconds, then his eye closes and he gasps against Cullen's mouth. Wet heat pulls another involuntary thrust out of Cullen, but he's too spent for more than that.

He dozes after that, a light sleep that's broken the moment Bull tries to move out from under him. With the grey light of dawn creeping in around the doors, there's no point going back to sleep, even assuming he somehow could, and so he climbs stiffly out of bed.

The awkwardness he was expecting last time isn't actually as bad as he'd feared it would be. It's much like being a recruit again, moving around a new bunkmate, neither of them familiar enough with the other's routine to stay out of the way. At least he's old enough now, accustomed to the length of his arms and legs, that he doesn't trip over his own feet when he has to duck sideways to avoid Bull's sword as the Qunari straps it across his back.

He's smiling, for no reason he can define, as he settles his own sword at his hip.


	6. The Pattern Still Remains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the pattern still remains  
> On the wall where darkness fell,  
> And it's fitting that it should,  
> For in darkness I must dwell.  
> Like the color of my skin,  
> Or the day that I grow old,  
> My life is made of patterns  
> That can scarcely be controlled.
> 
> Paul Simon, "Patterns"  
> ****
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's left comments and kudos! It makes it sooo much easier to write this when I know it's working for people.

The following week is so nearly a repeat of the previous one that Cullen feels as if he's traveled backward in time. It starts out well enough, then slides gradually downward over the course of days until by the end of the week, he's once again standing outside the mages' tower. He doesn't go inside, though he sits on the wall beside the door for at least an hour, looking down into Skyhold's courtyard and reminding himself of Bull's promise.

At dawn, he goes about his day: whatever business his clerk and his lieutenants bring him, chess with Dorian, practice with Cassandra, and a half-hearted attempt to sleep that he knows is doomed even as he lies down in bed. He stares at the ceiling until he can't stand it anymore, and flings himself out of bed to dress for yet another midnight walk around Skyhold.

In the middle of his office, he pauses, trying to decide which door to take: the wall, the courtyard...or the wall that will take him to the mages' tower. That same door will take him to Bull's room, if he doesn't go down and around to avoid it.

"Find me," Bull said.

So Cullen does.

As he strides along the top of the wall, he tries to decide what he'll say when he gets there. Not that he thinks he'll need to explain, but he cringes at the thought of simply walking in and taking off his clothes. "Distract me," maybe? And what does he plan to do if Bull isn't there? He worries briefly about what he'll do if Bull says no, but even his over-anxious mind can't sustain any real concern over that.

He's so deep in his own thoughts that he opens Bull's door and crosses the threshold before he looks up, and then he freezes, one hand on the still-open door. Bull is definitely there, but he's not alone.

Dorian is on the bed naked, on his hands and knees, head hanging down and hair dark with sweat. His face is hidden by his arm and shoulder, but Cullen can hear him muttering curses in a ragged voice. Bull is on one knee behind Dorian, his hands smoothing their way up his back. The two of them could have been staged for Cullen's benefit, the angle is that perfect: he has a clear view of Bull's cock as it slides into Dorian's ass, and the sight leaves him breathless.

He should go, he knows he should go, step backward and close the door quietly so as not to draw attention. The only problem is that his feet have been nailed to the floor. Dorian is neither weak nor small, but he lacks the heavy muscles that come with wearing full plate armor all day, every day, for years. Either one of Bull's hands could span Dorian's back from shoulder to shoulder, and Cullen can't seem to look away as those hands move gently over ribs and rigid muscles.

Cullen tears his eyes away at last, looking up to find Bull watching him. His face flushes the way it hasn't since Kinloch Hold, arousal and embarrassment together, and he takes a half step backward.

"Leaving so soon?" Bull asks.

Dorian's head snaps up, and he blinks at Cullen in surprise. His eyes are almost entirely pupil and his lips are parted, his quick breaths the only sound in the room. Between one blink and the next, Cullen imagines those lips wrapped around his cock, which was well on its way to hard _before_ he thought about Dorian's mouth and is now painful.

That he's never once thought about Dorian's mouth before this moment, not in all the months they've known each other, doesn't seem to make a difference.

Past his initial surprise, Dorian's eyes regain a little of their normal color, and one corner of his mouth twists up. "Whatever you decide, close the door. It's a bit chilly out there, Commander."

Hearing his title is so jarring it snaps Cullen out of his paralysis. He takes another half step back, mumbling apologies, until Bull runs his hand up Dorian's side, thumb digging into the muscles along his spine. Cullen freezes again, mid-step and mid-word, as Dorian closes his eyes and arches into the touch. The sound he makes, halfway between a groan and a purr, might as well be a hand on Cullen's bare skin.

Cullen steps sideways this time, clearing the way so he can close the door, shutting the rest of the world out. Before he can be distracted, he bars the door beside him, squinting into the dimness to check the other two, both of which are already secure. It doesn't escape his notice that the only door left unbarred was the one he was most likely to walk through.

Only then does he look back at the bed. Bull and Dorian are both watching him, Bull's hips and hands moving in slow strokes, Dorian's eyes nearly black again. Cullen reaches for his belt, but stops at Bull's head shake.

Confused but obedient, Cullen clasps his hands behind himself, twisting his fingers together where no one else can see them. There's a flurry of motion that he can't follow, a surprised curse from Dorian, then Bull is sitting on the side of the bed with Dorian straddling his thighs, both of them facing Cullen. Bull's knees are spread wide, forcing Dorian's wider, and his cock is still (again?) buried in Dorian's ass.

Bull gestures Cullen forward with one hand, the other splayed across Dorian's chest to hold him in place. It isn't until Cullen is standing between their legs and Bull says, "On your knees" that he realizes what he's supposed to do.

By the look on Dorian's face, he's figured it out a while ago, and he isn't entirely pleased. As Cullen sinks to his knees and leans in, Dorian puts a hand on his shoulder, holding him back. "Are you sure?" he asks, looking hard into Cullen's eyes.

Bull winds his fingers in Cullen's hair, trying to pull him closer. With Dorian's hand still pushing him away, the pain in his scalp is enough to make him grit his teeth. It also sends heat rushing through him, so much that his hips rock forward, seeking even the minimal, unsatisfying pressure from the fabric of his trousers.

"If he didn't want to be here," Bull says patiently, "he wouldn't be here. He wants it."

Cullen waits passively for them to work it out, because this is exactly what he wants, a total abdication of responsibility. Sex that wipes his mind clean of anything except what's happening right now isn't a bad thing, either.

Dorian frowns down at him. "And since when do you suck cock?"

Cullen waits for Bull's nod of permission before he speaks. "Since about two weeks ago." He can't quite keep the corner of his mouth from twisting up in a half smile.

The incredulous look Dorian gives him broadens the smile despite his best efforts, and he glances quickly at Bull to see if he's broken some rule. He's still feeling his way blindly through a lot, but this he knows: he agreed to whatever Bull wants to do when he shut the door with himself on the inside. It doesn't matter who they are outside this room, not unless Cullen wants to say katoh and run. With everything he's already done, flinching away from sucking Dorian's cock while Bull fucks him seems downright ridiculous.

Dorian's hand moves from Cullen's shoulder to his forehead, and a cold wash of magic folds itself around and into him. He shivers unpleasantly, reminded (not for the first time) of what he gave up when he stopped taking lyrium. Nothing worse than the shiver comes of this, though, and he recognizes it quickly enough as a simple dispelling.

"You really thought I put a geas on him?" Bull asks, amused.

"You? No. Doesn't mean someone else didn't do something to fuck with his head."

 _Someone did,_ Cullen thinks but doesn't say. More than one someone, actually, with Uldred's and Meredith's names at the top of that list. With his own name at the top, for that matter. It's not as if he didn't know the risks when he began taking lyrium, as much as anyone that age knows anything about risk.

The conversation is giving him too much time to think. He shifts his weight, trying and failing to block the memories.

Whatever Dorian planned to say next is muffled by Bull's hand over his mouth. "Dorian," Bull says, and Dorian goes still. "I know why you're asking questions, and I allowed it because I changed the rules on you, but that's enough. We don't have to do this, but if we do..."

There's a brief pause, Dorian frowning down at Cullen as if considering a second, stronger dispelling. Then he nods, slowly, and Bull drops his hand back to Dorian's chest while he meets Cullen's eyes deliberately. "If you want out," he says, "knock on the floor, or the bedframe."

He waits for Cullen's nod before pulling him in by his hair. Dorian's cock has gone a little soft, but that means Cullen can actually get all of it into his mouth, at least for a while. It grows hard again quickly, filling his mouth and throat until he can barely breathe, Bull's hand holding him in place just a little too long before allowing him to move.

Unsure what to do with his hands, Cullen places one carefully on Dorian's thigh, up where the hair grows thin and light, and wraps the other around the base of Dorian's cock. Under his own power, he can't swallow all of it without gagging, but he works his mouth and hand together to try to make up for it.

There are too many decisions, and he's still having trouble closing off his thoughts. No sooner does he find a place for his hands then he's wondering if he should move them, or his head, or do something different with his mouth, or escape this room as fast as one word and his feet can carry him. He can almost hear Dorian's voice, that bantering tone he uses when they're exchanging insults over a game, asking, "Did you say you'd been doing this for two weeks or two _days_?" Teasing or not, just the possibility of those words makes Cullen want to hurt someone.

 _Katoh._ The word is a whisper in the back of his mind, persistent and intrusive.

Bull's hand lifts from his head, and the whisper gets louder until his hand returns, bringing one of Dorian's with it. That's sufficiently distracting to silence the voice for the moment, and Cullen focuses on those hands. It's an odd feeling, Bull's huge hand on one side of his head with an almost-but-not-quite painful hold on his hair, Dorian's smaller hand on the other side, fingers rubbing in hard circles, warm contrast to the prickle of pulled hair.

With his other hand, Dorian traces the scar on Cullen's face, fingers so gentle Cullen can barely feel them. Those fingers reach his upper lip and continue down, trailing over the back of Cullen's hand before Dorian lays his over top. The feel of Dorian's hand wrapped around his hand wrapped around Dorian's cock makes Cullen's heart pound hard enough that he can no longer hear that whispering voice.

Dorian's hand guides his, fingers tightening and twisting and going loose, running down to cup his balls and to press behind them, taking Cullen's hand along. With his knuckles against that thin skin, Cullen can feel Bull's cock moving, and he chokes on a gasp as he tries to match the rhythm. A glance up to gauge Dorian's reaction finds the mage looking down at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. Their eyes meet, and Dorian's chest heaves against Bull's restraining hand. He hardly blinks, and though it strains his neck, Cullen doesn't look away until Dorian closes his eyes and puts his head back against Bull's shoulder, whispering curses once again.

Cullen puts all his attention on his mouth and his hands then, aware that he lacks even a tenth of the experience Dorian is almost certainly accustomed to. Dorian doesn't make it easy on him: the fingers that were guiding his abandon that task in favor of exploring the curve of his collarbone under his shirt, nails scraping hard enough to sting. He groans around Dorian's cock, which presses briefly against the back of his throat at Dorian's hips thrust forward.

His own cock aches, but when he shifts to touch himself, Bull says, "No." Hardly louder than Dorian's muttered litany, that one word still manages to carry weight, weight that settles on Cullen. He remembers that first set of armor again, solid and safe. All the tension in his body is physical now, his thoughts no longer spinning endlessly.

Growing bolder, he uses his thumb and forefinger to circle the base of Bull's cock, squeezing lightly. Dorian's ass brushes against his knuckles on each stroke. The hand on his head pulls him closer, forcing him to swallow more of Dorian's cock until he's gagging around it. Dorian's muttering is now a mix of languages, "yes" and "harder" the only words Cullen can understand.

"Harder," Dorian gasps again, fisting Cullen's shirt, as if Cullen has any control over how hard Bull fucks him. Dorian's hand moves on soon enough, stroking Cullen's face, Bull's thigh, reaching up to wrap around Bull's neck and pull him down for a kiss. The angle is bad, the kiss sloppy, but Cullen tilts his head back to watch, unable to look away.

His fingers are slick with oil now, Bull's cock sliding easily between them. Remembering how it felt when Bull fucked him, how it felt to dance on that line between too much and just right, Cullen flexes his fingers and slides one, very carefully, into Dorian alongside Bull's cock.

Dorian shouts, surprise and something else. Before Cullen can pull away or think twice, Dorian arches against Bull's hand on his chest, grabbing painfully hard at Cullen's hair for the first time as he spills into Cullen's mouth. Cullen swallows as fast as he can, but some leaks out and over his fingers, letting his strokes slide more easily. Dorian's hips jerk again and again, and he's no longer making any sound at all.

His breathing restarts in a stuttering rush and the hand that was pulling Cullen's head closer tries to push it away instead. Bull mutters something in Dorian's ear, something that makes Dorian laugh breathlessly. Sitting back on his heels, Cullen tries to find some place to wipe his hand that isn't his clothes, and so he isn't looking at Dorian when the other man somehow manages to slide from Bull's lap into his without wrenching anything or hitting anyone with a knee on the way by.

Cullen doesn't have much time to marvel at this show of acrobatic prowess, because Dorian takes his head in both hands and kisses him, hard. There's no pulling away even if he wanted to, not with two hands in his hair and a pair of surprisingly muscular legs around his waist. Not that Cullen is in a hurry to go anywhere. Dorian's tongue is sliding against his like he's trying to taste every inch of Cullen's mouth, and Cullen forgets about wiping off his hands and just holds on, pressing their bodies closer together.

When Dorian pulls away, it's with every sign of reluctance, his teeth worrying Cullen's lower lip before he sits back. "Perhaps next time he can at least take off his sword?" Dorian says to Bull, with a smirk for Cullen, who's just realized that his sword is, indeed, still at his hip. Dorian's weight has shoved it down, but the pommel has to be digging in somewhere sensitive. Echoing his thoughts, Dorian adds, "It's leaving a bruise on my ass."

"His sword's not what left that bruise," Bull says, with immense satisfaction, and Dorian throws back his head and laughs.

The curve of his neck is too tempting, and Cullen leans forward to lick the hollow at the base of his throat. Dorian's laugh trails off into a pleased hmmmm, and his fingers are once more twisting through Cullen's hair.

"Sword off," Dorian murmurs in his ear.

It's easier said than done, especially since Dorian only shifts a little: he's still straddling Cullen's thighs, even if his legs are no longer around Cullen's waist. Behind Dorian, Bull cleans himself off, and the sight of his hard cock sliding through his hands and the cloth doesn't help Cullen's ability to focus. Still, with a good deal of twisting, every twist rubbing his cock against his trousers, Cullen manages to unbuckle his belt and free his sword. He's breathing hard by the time he slides the last loop free, the smell of sex mingling with other smells to make him dizzy: Bull, sweat and leather and metal, and Dorian, sweat and spice and lightning. Cullen didn't even know lightning had a smell, but it turns out that it smells like air that someone ripped apart and set on fire.

Dorian takes the sword and belt from him, passing them up to Bull and accepting in return a small glass vial of something Cullen can't identify. He doesn't get much time to wonder, Dorian already at work on his trousers. When he tries to help, his hands are captured and pinned to Bull's thighs, leaving Dorian free to work. Bull's hands don't hold his tightly, but Cullen knows struggling will gain him nothing.

He tries anyway, needing the reassurance that he can't slip out. Even with his thumbs pressed into his palms to make his hands as small as possible, all he manages to do is make his wrists sore, a soreness that will likely turn to bruises by morning. The image of Bull's fingers wrapped around his bruised wrists flashes through his mind just as Dorian's hand closes around his cock, and Cullen arches up into the touch, almost knocking Dorian on his ass despite Bull's knees bracketing his shoulders.

One arm looped around Cullen's neck, Dorian strokes him with the other hand, the movement too smooth to be just skin on skin, and some detached part of Cullen's mind knows what must have been in that vial. As if it matters at all right now. Fortunately, Dorian's hand and the ache in his wrists are more than enough distraction to save him from analyzing anything else.

Dorian shifts, bracing the balls of his feet against the floor and tightening his arm around Cullen's neck. Too hazy to think straight, Cullen isn't sure what's happening until half his cock is already in Dorian's ass. He yanks involuntarily against Bull's hands, distantly aware that he's now the one mumbling obscenities, until he drops his face into the crook of Dorian's shoulder to muffle the words. Warm skin moves under his lips, and he bites down on it without thinking.

Every muscle in Dorian's body clenches, and Cullen sucks in a gasp through his teeth. Instead of letting go, he explores with his tongue, tracing the line where his teeth press into skin, tasting salt and feeling the muscle underneath tremble. Dorian begins to move, rocking against him. At the top of each stroke, his shoulder presses up against Cullen's mouth hard enough to crush his lips against his teeth.

Cullen sucks on that fold of skin, aware that he's biting harder than he should and unable to stop. The arm around his neck is holding him close, as good an indication as any that Dorian doesn't mind. Cullen sucks a little harder, and Dorian's breath in his ear becomes uneven.

Dorian's free hand is under his shirt, fingernails dragging along his skin until they reach one nipple and pinch hard. The pain is exquisite, the sharp edges of Dorian's nails cutting into sensitive skin. If Cullen's hands were free, he would take hold of Dorian's hips and fuck him so hard neither of them would be able to walk tomorrow. With Bull pinning his hands in place, the best he can do is roll his hips up as Dorian brings his down.

Reminded of Bull, Cullen reluctantly takes his mouth off Dorian's shoulder and forces his eyes open. Bull is watching him, a tiny smile crinkling the corner of his eye, his cock still hard between his legs. If it weren't pointing nearly straight up, the tip would be just in reach of Cullen's mouth.

As if reading his mind, Dorian twists back and sideways to put his mouth on Bull's cock. He's still riding Cullen, whose hips twinge in sympathetic pain at the position Dorian has bent himself into. Cullen wouldn't be able to move for a week if he tried anything similar, but Dorian shows every sign of enjoying it, working his mouth and one hand along Bull's cock while his hips continue to rock. The muscles in his stomach and neck are stretched taut, and Cullen can just reach the unmarked side of his neck.

He looks up from biting Dorian's collarbone, catching Bull's gaze again. The Qunari still looks amused, but his mouth is slightly open, as if he's having trouble breathing, and his fingers on Cullen's wrists are growing tighter. Cullen tugs against his grip, not out of any desire to escape, but because he suspects that the reminder of their respective positions arouses Bull as much as it arouses Cullen.

Bull's smile widens and his hands close hard on Cullen's wrists, shooting pain all the way up to his shoulders. As Cullen jerks and gasps, Bull closes his eye and thrusts into Dorian's mouth. Cullen bends forward again, licking Dorian's neck as Bull's body goes rigid. The feel of Dorian's throat under his tongue, swallowing convulsively, is too much for him, and his own body arcs in a mirror of Bull's as heat runs in waves down his spine and out of his cock.

He's still collecting himself when Dorian untwists and settles more firmly across his thighs, but he's not so far gone that he doesn't wrap one of his newly-freed hands around Dorian's cock and stroke, pressing his mouth to the mark he left earlier on Dorian's shoulder. Bull leans forward, one of his horns passing perilously close to Cullen's face, and adds his hand, their fingers moving together as Dorian pants against Cullen's neck until his release washes over their fingers and Cullen's shirt.

When Dorian stops shuddering, his body goes almost limp against Cullen, breathing still not quite right. They stay like that a while, an ache in Cullen's knees beginning to make itself known. Just before the pain forces him to say something, Bull straightens. As he does, he mutters "Greedy 'Vint" in Dorian's ear on the way by, in a tone usually reserved for endearments.

Dorian laughs, stretching his arms over his head, right hand on his left wrist to pull himself sideways. The movement does interesting things to the rest of his body, and Cullen grunts, his cock somehow under the illusion that he, and it, are seventeen again. He's not sure he could even get hard again so soon, and if he somehow managed it, he's very sure he wouldn't make it any farther than that.

Of course, Dorian isn't seventeen either, and he doesn't seem to be plagued by any such problems. Cullen can't even bring himself to be envious. It's too much effort just now.

Left side properly stretched out, Dorian switches his grip and bends to the right, stirring more interest from Cullen's body, even as his knees protest louder.

"Enough, Dorian," Bull says. "Let him up."

A little to Cullen's surprise, Dorian doesn't argue when Bull lifts him, allowing Cullen to shuffle backwards on his knees until he can stand. This isn't an improvement, it turns out: without a warm, interested body pressed up against his, his mind is once more free to think too hard about too many things. He focuses on the inconsequential surface thoughts, working his thumbnail idly against the side of his finger, picking at the stickiness just beginning to dry into flakes. An inchoate fear that the evening's distraction is at its end is creeping up on him. It was an excellent distraction while it lasted, but there are hours left before dawn, and his mind is doing its best to erase the languor that had softened all his muscles only minutes ago.

Trying to pull himself back to that relaxed state, he looks up. Bull is sitting on the side of the bed, leaning back on his hands with his knees spread. Dorian stands beside him, most of his weight on one foot, studying Cullen as if he were a painting or statue in a gallery. "Yes, next time the sword definitely has to go."

Even though he said almost exactly the same thing earlier, Cullen really hears him now. "Next time"? He can't say that he'd object to a next time, but the thought makes him uncomfortable, too. It's a commitment to something beyond the Inquisition's cause, an implied promise tying him here. Any promise he makes is a promise he might break, a failure waiting to happen.

One of Dorian's eyebrows goes up. "I suggested we might do this again. I didn't suggest I move in with you. Let's keep a little perspective, shall we?"

Cullen is torn between irritation at having his thoughts read so easily, and relief at the words themselves. "I didn't say anything," he protests. Weakly, he knows.

"You didn't say anything _out loud_ ," Dorian agrees with a smirk. He bends sideways again, and this time he winces.

"That's what you get for showing off," Bull says, catching the brief grimace. "You're not a cat, and your spine's not supposed to bend like that."

"I'll be sorry tomorrow." Dorian doesn't look even a little bit repentant. "Maybe."

"You'll be sorry tomorrow," Bull says with conviction.

"I'll be _sore_ tomorrow. That's entirely different."

"I'll check back with you in the morning when you're trying to explain to the surgeon why she should part with one of her potions."

"Completely worth it," Dorian purrs, a sound that forces Cullen to once again remind himself that he's on the far side of thirty and not actually capable of fucking all night long anymore.

"We'll see if you're still saying that tomorrow," Bull says.

"I'll still be saying it even if I have to crawl to the surgeon." He grabs a fistful of Cullen's shirt, pulling him in for a hard kiss before spinning on his heel to give Bull the same treatment, using one horn as a handle to tip his head back. When he lets go, he's grinning. "I'll be saying it even if I have to ask Mother Giselle to carry a message to the surgeon for me."

Cullen snorts, not entirely sure the indirect praise is better than the sarcastic jabs he was worrying about earlier. At least sarcasm doesn't come with expectations. He scrapes his thumbnail harder over the side of his forefinger.

As Dorian turns in search of his pants, the candlelight falls over his shoulder, illuminating the bite mark in all its colorful glory. Cullen reaches out to touch it without thinking, then pulls his hand back before he makes contact. Not before catching Dorian's attention, unfortunately.

Cullen tries to apologize, embarrassed and appalled by the perfect red imprint of his teeth in Dorian's skin, and even more appalled at the way the sight makes him half hard. Dorian prods the mark gently, then reaches out and taps Cullen's chest through the open neck of his shirt. A sharp pain silences his mostly incoherent apology, and he cranes his head to see a scratch down the center of his chest, barely seeping blood. Dorian pokes the scratch again, and Cullen shifts uncomfortably.

 _Not seventeen,_ he reminds his body.

"Should I apologize for that?" Dorian asks, fingers lingering on Cullen's chest. There's an open challenge in his face, daring Cullen to lie.

He doesn't try, only shakes his head.

"Then why are you apologizing for this?"

Cullen shakes his head again, more uncomfortable than ever, and adds one more to his growing list of conversations he doesn't want to have. As a distraction, this hasn't turned out quite the way he'd hoped, despite the promising beginning. He's now wide awake, pulled as taut as a bowstring at full draw. Dorian seems determined to take all the rocks in Cullen's mind that Bull has been politely ignoring, and turn them over so he can scrutinize what he finds in the darkness underneath. Scrutinize, and then display it for the world to see. Cullen's clothes are a mess, or he'd already be backing toward the door, throwing out whatever semi-plausible excuse he could think of quickly.

While he's still debating whether the guards on the wall would actually notice his clothes as he hurries by in the dark, Bull heaves himself off the bed with a grunt that makes Cullen think Bull has also just been forcibly reminded that he's no longer seventeen. The realization pulls a reluctant smile from him and eases a little of the tension in his muscles.

So when Bull produces a deck of cards, Cullen lets himself be talked into staying, "Just for one hand." It's not as if he has anywhere else to go, except to the top of his tower.

By the time they've cleaned up and the first hand has been dealt, they're back in safer conversational territory. Dorian reverts to sarcastic and charming and shallow, no sign of that challenging, too-intent look on his face. He does his best to embarrass Cullen with a series of ribald stories, but that's no different than any other day. They could be playing chess in the garden. Bull is quiet for the most part, though whenever Cullen looks his way, he's smiling. Like Cullen, he seems content to let Dorian carry the weight of the conversation, a weight Dorian seems equally happy to shoulder.

Somewhere along the way, Cullen puts his head down on the table, just for a moment. Much like their game of Wicked Grace has turned from "just one hand" into at least a dozen, that moment of closed eyes melts into more.

He doesn't realize he's fallen asleep until the nightmare wakes him with its familiar terror. Still half inside the dream, he fights against the demon as he couldn't at Kinloch Hold, lashing out with his fists at whatever he can hit. The demon's hands hold him in place. _Her_ hands pin his arms as Bull did earlier.

That breaks the last of the dream apart: he left Kinloch Hold years before he met the Iron Bull, and the thought of any Qunari wandering those halls is jarring enough to bring his conscious mind back in control.

 _Not me, not me, not me._ He grabs onto his daily prayer, hiding behind the words. _Not me!_

Blinking against the candlelight and the fading remnants of the nightmare, Cullen realizes he's standing in the center of the room. His overturned chair is several feet away, in the opposite direction from the table, as if it went flying when he bolted to his feet. Cards are scattered over the table, Dorian's precise stacks of coins knocked about. One of Cullen's hands aches, as if he really has been punching a demon. He flexes his fingers, staring at the mess on the table, embarrassed to be seen like this.

"Well," Dorian says. His voice is odd, almost thick, and Cullen looks at him, then freezes. Blood covers Dorian's mouth and chin, and he's pinching the bridge of his nose tightly. His upper lip is split, his nose swollen, and the blanket he wrapped himself in when they sat down to play is spattered with red.

"Shit." The word takes all Cullen's air with it. His hand stops in mid-flex.

Blue-white light flickers around Dorian's fingers, and even from a distance Cullen can feel the wash of cold. The blood flow starts to abate. "At least now I have an excuse to ask the surgeon for one of her potions," Dorian says, his voice still thick. The humor is a little forced, but Cullen's amazed that he can find anything humorous in the situation.

Bull, predictably, barks out a laugh, slapping the table hard enough to make the coins jingle. "That's one way to solve the problem!"

For the second (or is it third?) time tonight, Cullen stumbles over an apology. This time, at least, Dorian keeps the conversation light, waving Cullen to silence with an airy flick of his hand. "It's not as if it's the first time my nose has been bloodied," he says. "It'll be fine by the next time you see me. My dashing good looks will be unaffected."

The blood has slowed to a trickle, and Dorian swipes at it with the back of his hand, then grimaces at the resultant mess. "At least I wasn't wearing anything I care about."

For the first time, Cullen really looks at what he's wearing. He's dressed only in a pair of loose linen trousers, nothing like what Cullen's accustomed to seeing him in. Dorian follows the line of his gaze and interprets the look correctly. "Bull can be hard on clothes. If he's going to rip something off me, I'd rather it was something I can replace easily."

"You like it," Bull says.

"Did I say otherwise?" Dorian's smile no longer looks forced, though it's still decidedly gory. His smile dims a moment as he studies Cullen, who braces himself for whatever unanswerable question Dorian will throw at him this time.

"Pass me that, will you?" Dorian asks, pointing past Cullen's shoulder.

Cullen blinks at him, puzzling out the meaning of words he knows but which don't fit together the way he expected. "What?"

"Pass me my shirt," Dorian says again, and his smile is back in force. Cullen has seen that smile a hundred times, and had it turned on him more than once, but for the first time, it leaves him stunned. Very much like a punch to the face, in fact. It's a smile that hints at acts polite people don't discuss, and probably don't even know. In the past, Cullen's never been affected by it, but this time, the smile calls up the memory of Dorian riding him with his mouth around Bull, a memory that jumps straight from his brain to his cock.

He's not sure how he feels about that, with Dorian's face still swollen and bloody from his fist. Not that he's a stranger to lust mixed with other, less pleasant emotions, but fear and anger are far more common than guilt. Once again, he feels like he's back at Kinloch Hold, wanting something and hating himself for wanting it.

 _You punched him, probably more than once,_ Cullen reminds himself as Dorian's words finally translate themselves in his head. He turns to look for the shirt, finding it crumpled on the floor a few feet behind him. As he picks it up, he tries to will his body to behave, with no more success than he's had on any other occasion lately.

By the look on Dorian's face when he accepts his shirt, he knows exactly what Cullen is thinking. Cullen looks away and steps back quickly, staring at the remains of their card game as if it holds the secret to defeating Corypheus. He tries not to think of anything at all, and certainly not of Dorian naked, muscles straining, throat moving under Cullen's mouth while Bull's hands leave marks around his wrists.

He's so absorbed in not-thinking that it takes him by surprise when Dorian steps between him and the table. The blood is gone, and the swelling doesn't look nearly as bad without it. It doesn't look _good_ , not with the bruises just starting to come up, but Cullen no longer has to feel guilty about the direction of his thoughts.

If Dorian's usual smile hints, the one he gives Cullen now promises. Cullen swallows, and says the only thing he can think of. "I'm sorry."

"I know how you can make it up to me," Dorian says, leaning in for a kiss.

Cullen tries to twist so he only touches the undamaged side of Dorian's mouth, but Dorian grabs his head in both hands and kisses him thoroughly. The taste of blood is distracting, and Cullen pulls away. "Doesn't that hurt?"

Dorian raises an eyebrow at him. "Yes. So did this." He brushes his fingers over the scratch on Cullen's chest. "And this." His fingers move to the mark on his own shoulder. "Don't try to tell me that because it hurts, I can't also enjoy it. I'd really rather you didn't punch me again, but since the bruise is there, I might as well get something out of it."

For emphasis, he presses harder against the scratches. Cullen's hips rock forward, and Dorian smiles. "I won't be sucking anything else tonight, but I'm sure between the three of us, we can think of other ways to entertain ourselves."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So having written less than five sex scenes in my entire freaking life, why did I think a M/M/M threesome was a good idea? "Why yes, I've just learned to ski. The black diamond slope? Sure, I'll give it a try!" In this analogy, I'm not sure what a slalom course would be, but I'm sure my brain will decide I need to try that next.
> 
> 'Scuse me while I go bang my head on a wall.


	7. Morning Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their fears are morning shadows huger than the shapes that cast them.
> 
> Alfred Lord Tennyson, "To the Queen"  
> ********  
> I made some very minor edits to previous chapters, most of which don't matter if you've made it this far, but I finally gave in and named Cullen's clerk. She was only supposed to show up once or twice, but she keeps sneaking in. So, her name is Mairyn, if you find yourself wondering "Who the heck is that?" when she appears.

He does get a little real sleep eventually, crushed between Bull and Dorian in a bed barely large enough for two people under normal circumstances. It's surprisingly comfortable. Either that, or he's so worn out trying to keep up with Dorian that he could have slept on the floor without complaint.

As comfortable as it is, for whatever reason it is, he realizes when he wakes that he can't get up without climbing over someone. He's sprawled half on and half beside Bull, with Dorian a warm weight against his back. Cullen's not foolish enough to assume this is coincidence, but it doesn't bother him as much as he would have expected. So long as Dorian doesn't wake up and decide they have to talk about it, at least.

With that thought in mind, he climbs over Bull instead of Dorian, even though it's twice as difficult. By the time Cullen stands, Bull is awake, and likely was the second Cullen moved. His eye, half closed, follows Cullen around the room, but neither of them speaks as he finds his clothes and pulls them on. It's not quite dawn, the room barely light enough without a candle.

He pauses at the door to look back, and for a moment, he's struck by the absurd impulse to crawl back into the bed, to squeeze himself into the gap between Bull and Dorian. Not to sleep, and not for sex, but just to be wrapped in their warmth, body pressed between theirs.

Bull is still watching him, and Cullen forces his mind back to the real world. The Inquisition is the only thing standing in Corypheus's way, and Cullen commands its army. He doesn't have the luxury of personal indulgences.

He taps his fist to his chest in a casual salute to Bull and heads back to his office, where he finds his desk covered in half a dozen letters that are actually important, and ten times that many whose writers think their concerns important but which really aren't. The former are easy to handle, because he only has to handle the problem itself. The remaining letters are more difficult, because he has to handle the touchy noble on the other end of the request, as well as the problem itself. He leaves the worst of those for Josephine with only a twinge of guilt.

About the time he clears off his desk, Mairyn arrives with a new stack of papers that (of course) need his immediate attention. The morning presents its usual array of challenges, and before Cullen's quite ready, he's late for his game with Dorian. He's briefly tempted to skip it, certain that it will be awkward even if he can't guess the extent of that awkwardness, but he can't very well avoid Dorian for the rest of their lives without attracting attention he doesn't want. Their lives might be measured in weeks at the moment, but everyone, from Mairyn to the Inquisitor, knows to look for him in the garden if he's needed around noon.

His careful, rational arguments don't keep his feet from slowing as he crosses the garden, walking up from behind Dorian to postpone the inevitable as long as possible. Perhaps if he's close enough before Dorian notices, no one will be able to hear whatever comment he makes. Cullen sets his feet down carefully, and returns all greetings with only a nod, determined not to draw Dorian's gaze until he's under the gazebo itself.

It doesn't work out quite the way he intended. His carefully neutral greeting startles Dorian into bolting to his feet, lightning already jumping between his fingers, and Cullen realizes he hasn't just walked up behind Dorian, he's _snuck_ up on him. A dangerous move with any of the Inquisitor's inner circle, and he supposes he should be grateful Dorian has enough control to damp the lightning down before it does more than spark.

The chess board and all its pieces went flying when Dorian stood, and half the garden's occupants are now staring at them.

"Good morning," Dorian says, his hands dropping to his sides. "If I wasn't awake before, I certainly am now. You'll pardon me if I don't seem properly grateful."

It's a perfectly innocuous comment, Cullen reminds himself as he kneels to gather up the chess pieces. For Dorian, it's positively tame.

By the time they have the board set to rights, everyone else has returned to their business and Cullen's nerves are steadier. Dorian makes no immediate or obvious references to the night before, and his hands don't linger when they exchange pieces. Well, they don't linger any longer than they did yesterday morning; Dorian, apparently, has no intention of giving up teasing him.

"So I see we're pretending nothing happened," Dorian says as he makes his first move.

None of the others wandering the garden are close enough to hear. Cullen knows that, just as he knows that looking around guiltily will draw far more attention than just about anything else he could do. His mouth still goes dry. "I would prefer that," he says cautiously, looking over the board with more care than is really warranted at this early stage.

"You needn't look so concerned," Dorian says. "I'm not going to shout it in the middle of the Herald's Rest." The look on his face, when Cullen glances up, isn't entirely enthusiastic.

"But you want to?" Cullen hazards, sliding one of his pawns forward.

"Not especially. I don't see where it's anyone else's business."

"But?"

Dorian smiles crookedly. "But I left Tevinter so I wouldn't have to hide my preferences. Just because I don't want to read about it in Varric's next book," he gives an exaggerated shudder, "doesn't mean I want to hide it completely."

Cullen winces at the thought of Varric getting so much as a hint of what's going on, the conversation making him more uncomfortable by the minute. What he really wants is to continue as he and Bull began: only the most essential boundaries defined, and everything else left unspoken. The logical part of him recognizes how dangerous that could be in the long run, so he forces himself to say, "It's not because you're a man, you know."

"I know," Dorian says. "Or at least, I suspected your reticence had more to do with my homeland than with me personally. Though Bull has no such mark against him, and you're just as unwilling to let anyone know that your relationship with him is more than friendly."

"People will make assumptions, if it ever becomes known that Bull and I..." Cullen stops, not sure how to go on.

"Yes," Dorian agrees dryly, "they'll assume you're having sex. Wouldn't that be shocking."

"It's not the sex I'm concerned about," Cullen says, reminding himself to be glad that at least Dorian is keeping his voice down.

"And why would they know anything more? Yes, some will speculate about who does what to whom, but so what? Is your authority really so precarious that it can't handle a little prurient speculation that will pass within a few weeks? I think you over-estimate the novelty you would present."

Cullen's head is starting to ache, and he pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "Can we agree to disagree on this?"

To his complete amazement, Dorian replies instantly with, "Of course." When Cullen stares at him in shock, he smiles. "Your secret is safe with me, Commander. Truly."

"Th-thank you." Cullen continues to stare at him, waiting for a caveat that doesn't come.

"I believe it's your turn," Dorian says, waving his fingers at the board. "Unless you're prepared to concede?"

"When I'm winning?" Cullen asks out of habit, his attention captured by the movement of Dorian's hands. He tries to focus on the game, with only moderate success. As they continue to play, his eyes stray again and again to Dorian's fingers. The nails are neatly trimmed and short, but Cullen remembers them against his skin. They felt long as talons last night, and he has the marks on his chest to prove it.

The third time his gaze lingers too long, he gets caught. With an expression of complete innocence, Dorian runs a thumb across the nails on the same hand and says, "They don't need to be long, if you're prepared to work a little harder."

He knows Dorian well enough to recognize that the double meaning is deliberate. Cullen fights back a blush, only half successfully, and reminds himself that he's not a child. While he may have little experience with the games Bull and Dorian play, that doesn't make him an innocent.

As casually as he can, Cullen says, "I don't recall complaining about the length." He keeps his gaze on the board, ostensibly for the air of nonchalance it gives him, but mostly because he suspects he'll blush even harder if he meets Dorian's eyes.

Dorian laughs, head back, throat bared. At the edge of his vision, Cullen watches him and remembers the taste of his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was short, so here, have two at once!


	8. The Good We Oft Might Win

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our doubts are traitors  
> And make us lose the good we oft might win  
> By fearing to attempt.
> 
>  _Measure for Measure_ , Act 1, Scene 4  
> ********  
> Alternate title: "In Which Cullen Fucks Up"

It's not the sort of routine Cullen would have expected, six months ago, that his life would fall into, but he finds that it's not an uncomfortable one. Sometimes he sleeps in his own bed, and sometimes he walks the short distance to Bull's room, careful to avoid the guards lest someone begin to notice. Sometimes Bull is alone, and sometimes Dorian is there. Sometimes they do nothing but play cards until dawn, Bull and Dorian competing to tell the most outrageous story, Cullen unable to do anything but laugh.

Sometimes. Most times, though, he spends at least part of the night on his knees, hands tied and mind free. And as the days go by, he sleeps in his own bed less and less, though he refuses to acknowledge that even to himself.

Almost a month into this new routine, just as Cullen is beginning to become comfortable in it, he sits down to play chess with Dorian only to find the mage in the blackest of moods. There's no explanation to start with, just a brooding silence from the other side of the chess board that's so unlike Dorian it makes Cullen's skin crawl. Where Cullen would prefer to leave less pleasant memories unexamined whenever his mind will allow it, Dorian always talks, no matter what emotion has him in its grip.

The silence grates on Cullen in short order. He can't help but wonder if he did something, or said something, and eventually that nascent guilt pushes him against his own inclination to silence. "Is something wrong?" he asks. It's a ridiculous question, because of course something is wrong, but just those three words are hard enough. He can't bring himself to be more direct.

"No," Dorian snaps, slamming one of his pawns down.

"Oh," Cullen says, feeling as if he's been slapped. All his other questions die unasked.

They play like that for the rest of the game, neither of them speaking, both of them unhappy, Cullen becoming more convinced with every passing minute that Dorian's mood is somehow his fault. Is it resentment over his intrusion into Dorian's relationship with Bull? Or did Dorian, despite his words that first night, expect some higher level of commitment from Cullen, some public acknowledgement of their relationship?

Cullen wins as quickly as he can, and the word "checkmate" is hardly out of his mouth before he's rising to his feet, glad it's over. Normally, they play more than one game, but today all he wants is to escape. "I'd best be getting back," he says, already gathering his coat around himself.

"My father sent a message," Dorian says, and Cullen freezes.

"What did it say?" he asks, relief and then embarrassment flooding him as he realizes Dorian's mood has nothing to do with him. When did he become so self-absorbed?

"I'm supposed to go to Redcliffe, to meet someone in the tavern there. Or rather, the Inquisitor is supposed to take me without telling me why."

Cullen's eyebrows shoot up, and Dorian smiles bitterly. "That's my father for you. What I want is irrelevant. It's easier for him if I'm led blindly to the slaughter, rather than aware and fighting. And what else in life is more important than easing the way for Halward fucking Pavus?"

"At least you _do_ know what's coming," Cullen says as he sits again.

"And a part of me wishes I didn't, that I had just walked into whatever plans he has for me, blissfully ignorant. Now I have to decide whether to meet whatever 'retainer' he's sent, with whatever message he thinks will somehow convince me to return home to be the son I'm supposed to be."

There isn't much Cullen can say to that. Everything he wants to say violates the unspoken boundaries of their relationship. That he's the one who set those boundaries, and that he's their most zealous guard, doesn't change a thing.

"Will you go to Redcliffe?" he asks instead.

Dorian heaves a sigh. "Possibly. Probably. If nothing else, my curiosity will eat at me until I give in. What can he possibly say to me that he hasn't already said? And through someone else, at that."

"No way of knowing if you don't go," Cullen agrees. He almost offers to accompany Dorian, but he hesitates, and then the moment is gone.

He regrets that hesitation at least a dozen times over the next two weeks, waiting for news from Dorian or the Inquisitor about what they found at Redcliffe. Bull is as concerned as he is, though he doesn't so much as say Dorian's name. Cullen can read his concern in awkward pauses in their conversations, in the way he sometimes looks toward the gate when a rider approaches, in the way he finds excuses to linger in the hall or the courtyard. Cullen keeps his own vigil, looking for any hints in the reports that cross his desk or the gossip he hears when he wanders the camps.

In the end, they both miss Dorian's midnight return, discovering it the next morning when the Inquisitor joins them for breakfast. Bull excuses himself immediately, while Cullen forces himself to remain seated. If he doesn't want anyone to suspect the relationship between the three of them, rushing to Dorian's side with the Iron Bull is hardly the way to do that.

He has no idea what he eats for breakfast. Sera could have slipped something truly disgusting into his food, and he would likely have eaten it without noticing, so long as it didn't actively try to crawl out of his spoon.

When he thinks it's been long enough, he takes a different door from the hall than the one Bull chose. Skyhold is a warren, hallways and staircases connecting in odd and unexpected ways. Cullen spent most of the first week hopelessly lost, following whichever corridor he found himself in until it eventually led him back to the main hall or the courtyard. Months later, he knows all the ways to get anywhere, and it's easy enough to reach his destination, without following Bull.

Dorian is sitting in his usual chair, but that's the only normal part of the scene Cullen finds in the library. For one thing, the room is completely empty of anyone except the three of them. More importantly, there's no book in Dorian's hands, no easy smile on his face. He's still dressed for travel, his muddy boots abandoned beside him. He looks about twelve years old, with his bare heels on the seat of his chair and his arms wrapped around his shins.

A smile crosses his face when he sees Cullen, but it's faint and fleeting. "Good morning, Commander. I don't suppose you could be persuaded to bring me another bottle? Our horned friend here has declined. Very ungraciously, I might add."

Bull is leaning against the wall by the window, his face expressionless.

"A bottle?" Cullen asks, taking in the half dozen or so empty ones around Dorian's chair.

"Wine," Dorian says, as if Cullen is a rather slow child. He doesn't sound nearly as drunk as the bottles would indicate. "Any wine will do at this point, I'm not particularly choosy. I'll even drink some of that swill the Inquisitor insists on bringing home."

"I think water might be a better choice at this point," Cullen says. He glances at Bull, hoping for some guidance, but Bull remains impassive.

"Come now, Commander, water won't do and you know it. I've already expended considerable effort toward drinking myself stupid, and it would be a shame to let that go to waste."

Cullen doesn't know what to say, so he says the first thing that comes to mind, falling into the pattern of banter he and Dorian established almost from the start. "It's going to take a lot more than wine to make you stupid."

He knows Dorian's upset when he doesn't seize the compliment and make far too much of it. "I'll settle for temporarily impaired, then. Care to recommend another way to ensure I don't have to listen to my father in my head for the rest of the day?"

Cullen knows one way guaranteed to stop all such problems, but the thought of Dorian stepping off the mage's tower makes him feel like someone set his lungs on fire. He can't get enough air to respond.

"You know my suggestion," Bull says. His tone is light, while his face, out of Dorian's line of sight, is the exact opposite.

"Not in the library," Dorian says, scandalized but looking more like himself for a moment. "Some of these books are exceedingly rare."

"We don't have to stay in the library."

"I like it here," Dorian says, and he's back to looking like a lost child.

"Then we'll stay," Bull says. He leaves off propping up the wall and takes a knee in front of Dorian, putting one hand on the arm of the chair without touching Dorian himself.

Dorian closes his eyes. "Though there would be something deliciously ironic about drowning out my father's voice with exactly the thing he disapproves of most. And with a Qunari and a templar, at that." The smirk that should accompany the words is conspicuous in its absence, making Dorian sound more tired than anything.

Cullen puts the pieces together all in a blink. "Your father was in Redcliffe. Not a...whatever the letter said. Retainer."

"Ah," Dorian sighs. "You're quicker than I was. He caught me completely by surprise."

"I had a few extra hints," Cullen says. Every careful and cautious impulse he has screams at him to run away before whatever fear Bull's put into the library's usual inhabitants wears off, but Cullen forces himself to stay put. He's done nothing but regret his silence when Dorian first told him about the letter, and he knows how much deeper it will cut them both if he turns his back now. He can't bring himself to move closer, but he doesn't run.

Above their heads, one of Leliana's ravens quorks, startling all three of them, and Dorian smiles weakly. The smile fades when Bull slides his fingers through Dorian's, still locked together around his legs. Dorian puts his head down on his knees, hiding his face.

"Was there a fight?" Bull asks.

Dorian shrugs, the movement twisting his robe so the snake embroidered on the left shoulder seems to slither forward. From his current angle, Cullen can only see the open mouth, the rest of the snake hidden where it stretches across Dorian's back. Cullen's seen these robes before, even helped take them off a few times, but for some reason, the embroidery looks threatening today, as if the snake might come alive at any moment and sink its fangs into Dorian's neck.

"We didn't break anything," Dorian says to his knees. "It was actually rather civilized, all things considered. He didn't try a single bit of blood magic on me." There's a bite to the last words that Cullen knows all too well, rage and pain and fear twisted together.

"Blood magic?" he asks, because this is Dorian, and Dorian likes to talk, even when the words hurt.

"Ah yes, I suppose none of this was in the Inquisitor's report."

"I haven't seen it yet. We only just found out you were back."

"You could have come to me when you got home," Bull says quietly. Cullen would have taken the words as a rebuke if they'd been aimed at him, but Dorian seems to hear a different message. He lets his feet drop to the floor on either side of Bull's knee and leans forward to rest his forehead between Bull's horns. Their hands end up on Dorian's knees, Bull's fingers curling around Dorian's legs.

Cullen wants to run away and wants to join them, the two desires so perfectly balanced he can't move in any direction.

"What did your father want?" Bull asks.

"To reconcile," Dorian says, and he doesn't sound as if this makes him happy. "Which now makes me a terrible person if I don't forgive him for what he did." He rolls his head back and forth, Bull's horns leaving red marks on his skin. "He's turned an apology into another weapon against me. Congratulations, Father." The last part is muttered almost too quietly for Cullen to hear.

"What did he do?" Cullen asks. "That he wants you to forgive."

Dorian heaves out a sigh and stands, bending around Bull's horns without any sign of effort, doubly impressive given the amount of wine he's drunk. Bull lets him go, turning to watch him as he crosses to the window and leans on the sill. "He tried to change me," Dorian says to the grey sky. "All my life he taught me that blood magic was for the weak, but I suppose adhering to his principles was less important than having a son who could carry on his legacy."

"Change you?" Cullen prompts, when Dorian doesn't go on.

"Change me. I don't know if he made up the spell, or if he found it in some book, though if such a spell existed anywhere, it would be in Tevinter." Dorian's voice is bitterly amused. "Maker forbid that Halward fucking Pavus should have a son who preferred the company of men. Better to have a son who would need a slave to feed him and clothe him and wipe the drool from his chin for the rest of his life."

Cullen draws a sharp breath in through his teeth, and Dorian glances over his shoulder. "Well, that was only a _possible_ side-effect," Dorian says, mouth tight. "I might have been perfectly fine at the end of it. By my father's definition of fine, of course. My definition of it didn't matter." He turns back to the window, hands braced and head hanging.

"Do you know what the best part is?" Dorian asks, and doesn't wait for either of them to answer. "As he's picking the slaves he's going to kill to 'fix' me, he tells me that I've no one to blame but myself for what's happening. I could have married Livia willingly, closed my eyes and thought of Tevinter while I ensured the Pavus name would live on, then taken my pleasure where I wanted. As if spending my life lying and hiding, as if taking a vow knowing I was going to break it, was somehow a reasonable choice."

Cullen isn't shocked--he's seen far too many people destroy the things they claim to love--but it still hurts. He can't imagine his own parents going to such lengths for anything, even if they'd had the requisite skills. Their love was one thing he always had, and always knew he had, even if they didn't always understand him.

But Dorian isn't finished. "The last thing he said before I left, after I told him exactly what he could do with his blood magic was, 'You are no son of mine.' How do I forgive that? I don't even know if I want to."

The serpent on his robe seems to hiss at Cullen, warning him away. Bull is made of sterner stuff: he gets to his feet and stands beside Dorian, close enough that their shoulders brush. Dorian leans sideways into him, and Bull wraps an arm around him.

"You need to sleep, kadan," Bull says, and Cullen's ear is caught by the unfamiliar word.

By the wary look on Dorian's face, he doesn't know what it means either, but he only leans further into the circle of Bull's arm. "But I was doing such a lovely job of getting drunk," he says in an exaggerated whine. "I do so hate to leave something half finished."

"I'm sure we can find something more fun to do," Bull says with a leer, and Dorian moves when Bull tugs him toward the stairs. "The commander has soldiers to terrify, but I could use a way to kill some time."

The look he gives Cullen over Dorian's head has a question in it, even as it absolves him. It's permission to take the other set of stairs back to the hall and then on to his paperwork, and there's no anger or attempted guilt in Bull's face. Cullen wavers for a moment, but he has responsibilities. A large number, and more with every passing day. It isn't as if Bull needs his help to take care of Dorian.

 _Wrong, wrong, wrong!_ shouts a voice in the back of his head, but he ignores it and heads for his office.

When he sees Dorian the next day, looking very much like a man who spent far too much of the previous day drinking, neither of them mentions the conversation. Other than his obvious wine-sickness, Dorian is his usual self. There are no reproachful looks, no icy silences, and certainly no references to his father.

It bothers Cullen anyway, a splinter under his skin that he picks at without dislodging. _Wrong, wrong, wrong,_ whispers the voice, but there's no taking it back now, not with Dorian acting as if nothing happened. A dozen times, Cullen braces himself to apologize, and a dozen times, he lets the moment pass without speaking.

Eventually, there are no more moments into which such an apology would fit, and Cullen can't bring himself to force one. The skin heals, but the splinter remains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: There's now a [not-terribly-cheerful interstitial](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5164094) about Dorian's reaction to discovering exactly what kadan means.


	9. How Like a Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How like a winter hath my absence been  
> From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!  
> What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!  
> What old December's bareness everywhere!  
>   
> And yet this time remov'd was summer's time,  
> The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,  
> Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime,  
> Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:  
>   
> Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me  
> But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit;  
> For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,  
> And thou away, the very birds are mute;  
>   
> Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer  
> That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.
> 
> Shakespeare's Sonnet 97

A few weeks later, Cullen realizes the problem with relying on the Iron Bull: sometimes, other responsibilities will call him away even if Cullen needs him. This realization hits him squarely between the eyes as he stands in the door of Bull's room, taking in all the little signs that no one has been here today, and likely won't be tonight. His skin aches, and he can almost feel the lyrium philter in his hands. He needs a distraction, desperately.

He wanders Skyhold for a while, considering his options. Cassandra is off on some task for the Inquisitor, quite possibly the same one that's occupying Bull. Dorian might be around, but he's not in the library and so Cullen doesn't have any idea where to find him. Mairyn will stay up all night if he asks it of her, and there's always more than enough paperwork to fill a dozen nights, but he hates to make such a ridiculous, seemingly nonsensical demand of anyone. She already studies him too carefully before she gives him any piece of bad news, and he can hardly make good decisions if his people won't bring problems to him.

Leaving the main hall, he pauses on the landing halfway down and studies his tower. It's a black outline against the snow and stars, its crenellations blurred into solid walls by the distance and his angle. Something tickles the back of his mind, something Bull said the first night he climbed Cullen's tower, but it slips away before he can grab it, lost under the smell of stone and cold wind, and the memory of the tower walls around him. Surely a few minutes...

"Evening, Commander," someone calls up from the courtyard, and Cullen's hand squeezes the hilt of his sword. No. Not even one second.

He continues his descent, head turned away from his tower as if it will call to him less urgently if he can't see it. At the bottom of the stairs, he pauses, once again at a loss.

"Evening," someone says again, and Cullen realizes that the earlier greeting wasn't something tossed off in passing. He squints into the shadows, and one of them separates itself from its brethren and turns into Krem.

"Good evening," Cullen says. "You're out late. Everything all right?"

"Could say the same for you," Krem says with an easy shrug. "The Chief's off with the Inquisitor, and it leaves me and the boys at loose ends. Care to join us for a drink?"

The words are so unexpected that Cullen is left momentarily speechless. Even recognizing Bull's hand behind this offer doesn't help him decide what to say in response.

"Won't be anything fancy," Krem adds, when the silence grows awkward, "just a bunch of drunks swapping bullshit stories, but you're welcome to join us."

"Why?" Cullen asks without thinking, then wishes he could take the word back.

Krem answers as if it's the most logical question in the world. "I'll bet you've got your own share of bullshit stories, and that'll be a nice change. We've mostly all got the same stories to tell. Either we lived 'em together, or we've stolen the best from each other and made 'em our own."

It sounds reasonable, and Krem looks sincere, but Cullen isn't fooled. He opens his mouth to decline, realizes that he doesn't have any idea what he'll do with himself once Krem walks away, and says instead, "Let the bullshit stories commence, then." Does it really matter if Bull put Krem up to this? Cullen is desperate enough to feel only a vague sense of shame that his life is so completely out of his own control.

He follows Krem to the Herald's Rest and tries not to think about it.

Whatever Krem does or doesn't know, the rest of the Chargers are ignorant of all of it, if the surprised looks they give him are anything to go by. They're as baffled by his presence as he is himself, but like any group of soldiers, they're more concerned with their drinks and their stories. Krem disarms their curiosity by saying, "I was telling the commander about that noble with the giants, and he laughed so hard, I told him he should come along, that we had lots better stories than that."

As the Chargers laugh, Cullen makes a note to ask Krem for the details later. From the half sentences the others are throwing around, reminding each other of the parts they liked best without providing any useful details to an outsider, the story sounds like it might be as funny as Krem makes it out to be.

Cullen endears himself to the Chargers immediately by buying the next round. What else is he spending his coin on, after all? With fresh drinks in everyone's hands, he's free to sit quietly and listen to the, as Krem called them, "bullshit stories." It's an apt description: some of them are so unbelievable Cullen can't even make out the bones of what really happened in the first place, not under all the trappings that have been added over the years. He suspects that at least a few of these stories happened years before the teller was born, passed down from parents and siblings and other mercenaries, with a new hero for each telling.

Which makes him the perfect audience, as every one of the stories is new to him, and a few of the Chargers are excellent storytellers. Those without the skill are amusing in their own way, as others jump in to correct them or divert them down some side track until the original story is buried under the weight of the conversation and forgotten.

The one drink he allows himself lasts into the small hours of the morning, at which point the Chargers are all too drunk to notice he's drinking nothing and he doesn't need to pretend anymore. Krem drinks as little as he does, Cullen notices, but the others range from a little unsteady to passed out under the table. Even drunk, they're entertaining, and by the time the last of them stagger off or are carried away by their only-slightly-more-sober comrades, Cullen's glad he took Krem up on his offer.

The Herald's Rest is nearly empty now, and the few remaining occupants are wholly absorbed in their own thoughts and the contents of their mugs. A silence descends on the table, a silence all the stranger for the noisy crowd that was here only minutes ago.

"Thank you," Cullen says, raising his empty cup in Krem's direction.

"For what?" Krem says, as if this is nothing.

Normally, Cullen would be content to let it go at that, to let both of them pretend that Krem just happened to walk by when he did, that his offer of company was spontaneous. Maybe it's the hour, or maybe its Dorian's influence, but Cullen says, "Thank you for coming to find me."

Krem blinks at him in surprise for a moment. "The Chief asked me to, and I owe him a lot. Besides, I wasn't lying when I said it's nice to have fresh ears for our stories."

Reminded, Cullen asks, "What is the story about the giants, anyway?"

"The what? Oh!" Krem laughs and tells him the story. It's by far the least outrageous one he's heard tonight, and he suspects it's still recent enough to be mostly truth.

From there, it doesn't take much encouragement to get the story of Krem's first meeting with the Iron Bull, and then further back to his departure from Tevinter. Cullen ends up with a second drink, somehow, and he sips it slowly as he lets Krem's voice roll over him.

When Krem's history is told, Cullen turns the details over in his head as he turns his mug in his hands, watching the last of his ale slosh against the sides. "So you understand," he murmurs, "what it's like to have your whole idea of yourself torn apart." He pretends the words are thoughtless, something that just slipped out, because that will make it easier to take them back if he needs to.

"Mmmm," Krem says. It's not exactly a noise of agreement. More an agreement not to argue, than agreement with the words themselves.

Cullen drains his mug for courage and raises his eyebrows encouragingly.

"I always knew who I was," Krem says, without look away from his own mug. "It was getting the rest of the world to see me the right way that was the real problem, until Bull." He shrugs one shoulder. "Can't say if that's harder or easier than living a few decades as one person, only to find you're someone else after all."

Laid out like that, Cullen thinks he knows the answer, but he appreciates the tactfulness of Krem's answer. _You are not the only person suffering._ Cullen raises his empty mug in silent acknowledgement, both of the words Krem said and the ones he didn't.

The next morning, Mairyn brings him word that Cassandra and Dorian are, as he suspected, off with Bull and the Inquisitor, so he joins the Chargers again the next night. They're a little less surprised to see him, but just as eager to tell whatever tales they can think of. He shares some of his own this time, the few that are actually amusing. A templar's life tends to produce stories more typically described as horrifying or gruesome, though he supposes a mercenary's life would be much the same. Perhaps that's why they hold on so tightly to the older stories, the ones they've inherited from others, the ones that make them laugh rather than cry.

Or perhaps they just like funny stories. They're certainly happy enough to hear Cullen's.

###

He joins the Chargers most nights after that, and so that's where he is when Bull returns. It's early evening, the Herald's Rest still crowded, but Bull draws every eye as he comes through the door. Bedraggled is the kindest word Cullen can think of to describe him: he's wet and dirty and bloody, with a new, angry-looking scar across his chest. None of it appears to have any effect on his mood. He greets Cullen and the Chargers with equal enthusiasm, slapping shoulders and shouting insults across the room.

Bull makes no mention of where he's been, and deflects effortlessly all attempts to find out. The Chargers take the hint soon enough, though Krem looks like he might only be biding his time, waiting for a bit of privacy. Cullen watches him watching Bull, and hides a smile behind his mug.

His own curiosity eats at him. The Inquisitor and Cassandra almost certainly retreated to their beds as soon as they reached Skyhold, but Dorian might still be awake. When Cullen judges enough time has passed since Bull's arrival that no one will comment, he slips out of the inn. The crowd is so loud he can hear them halfway across the courtyard, through the closed door.

He circles around: across the courtyard, up the stairs, and along the wall, until he's standing at Bull's door with no one the wiser. He knocks once, lightly, but doesn't wait for a response before stepping inside.

As he'd suspected, Dorian is there, slouched in a chair with his feet on the corner of the table, an unopened bottle in his lap. If possible, he looks even worse than Bull: one sleeve of his robe is burned away, and he flexes the fingers on that hand as if to reassure himself they're all still present and accounted for. Cullen knows from personal experience that whatever a potion does for the physical damage, it can't take away the memory of flesh burning or bones breaking. When their eyes meet, though, Dorian is grinning, a fierce grin that's more predatory than pleased.

"We found him," he says, and Cullen realizes, half relieved and half disappointed, that the predatory look wasn't aimed at him.

Then the words sink in, and he takes an involuntary step closer. "Samson?" Of course Samson, but he waits for Dorian's nod, not quite ready to believe it's true. "Where?"

"We turned it all over to Leliana." Dorian makes a tight fist, examining his curled fingers critically. "She should have a report for you in a few days."

Cullen wants to march now, as if by bringing Samson to justice he can purge himself of all his own weaknesses. As if he can absolve himself of his own failures by beginning to make Samson's right. He clenches his hands, the muscles in his jaw aching. The lyrium buzzes in his ears like angry bees, his bones vibrating in harmony. He can hardly breathe, and his blood beats too hard in his ears.

"We have him," Dorian says, and Cullen forces himself to take a deep breath, no matter how much his lungs protest.

"Unless someone warns him."

"You, me, Bull, Cassandra, Leliana. And the Inquisitor, of course. Which of us do you think will let it slip?"

Cullen barks out a laugh despite himself. "True enough. I'm not that far gone, not yet."

"You're not gone at all," Dorian says, rolling his eyes. Then that toothy smile is back, and this time Cullen knows it is for him. "But we can fix that."

"That doesn't even make sense, Dorian."

"Did you know what I meant?"

"Well, yes, but-"

"Then it made enough sense."

Cullen laughs again, less harshly, and rubs his face with both hands. "I just can't believe you actually found him. We've been looking so long, I began to think he was an illusion, something Corypheus summoned up to torment me."

"I can show you on a map, if you promise not to run off by yourself." Dorian is only half joking, and Cullen doesn't blame him. He can't swear he wouldn't leave tonight, if he knew where to go.

"Leliana will show me," Cullen forces out. He wants to hit something, very badly.

Dorian moves the bottle from his lap to the table and drops his feet to the floor so he can rest his elbows on his knees, giving Cullen a speculative look. "Bull may be with the Chargers a while, but you and I don't have to wait for him to entertain ourselves."

A reminder that hitting things is no longer his only option. He's angry, but that's never kept him from Bull's bed in the past. Still...

Cullen points with his chin at the unbarred door behind Dorian. "We can't very well lock Bull out of his own room, and who else could barge in while we're distracted?"

Dorian's face loses that hint of a smile, more serious than Cullen is used to seeing him. "I'll bar the door, and open it for Bull when he arrives. My word on it, no one else will enter." He watches Cullen for a few seconds, then stands and walks across the room until they're only inches apart. The smell of smoke follows him, and Cullen can taste it when their lips meet.

Dorian steps back when he tries to deepen the kiss, smirking again. "Have I mentioned that you're over-dressed, Commander?"

There's his title again, as jarring and unwelcome as it ever is when Dorian uses it here, in this room. Dorian's brows go up at whatever he sees on Cullen's face, then his head cocks thoughtfully. "Cullen," he says, his voice low and warm. How he can make a name sound obscene is a mystery. Cullen swallows and links his hands behind his back to keep from touching himself or Dorian.

"Take off your clothes," Dorian says, and there's an echo of Bull's commanding tone there. It's more than a little surprising from a man who's likely never commanded anyone other than servants and slaves. Or perhaps not so surprising, from a man who grew up knowing, blood and breath and bone, that he was the master.

Cullen sets his sword aside and begins to pull off his shirt, but the lyrium is still making his bones ache and he can't keep his mind off it. Following Dorian's commands is different than following Bull's: Bull could make him obey, out-muscle him in a real fight. Dorian...well. It's entirely likely that in a fist fight between the two of them, Cullen could win with one hand literally tied behind his back. Dorian can't make him submit, and so Cullen has to choose, to think: will he do this, or that, or something else entirely?

Thinking is _not_ what he wants to be doing.

"Cullen," Dorian says again, and the note of command pulls Cullen's head up from where it was bent, inspecting the lacings of his shirt. Dorian is watching him with a strange half-smile, one corner of his mouth turned up and his eyes narrowed.

The air around Cullen turns thick and heavy, and not in any metaphorical sense. It has weight, and that weight increases with every breath, pressing down on him until his shoulders ache. Under it, he has no choice but to go to his knees, pressed down and down until his forehead touches the floor, the muscles in his back tight. He can breathe, but that's all.

Cullen knows exactly what's happening, and it should terrify him. He trained most of his life to maintain his power over mages, to never be helpless like this. Without lyrium, helpless is exactly what he is, but this is Dorian, and the fear can't gain much ground. They've traded insults over far too many chess games, and Cullen trusts him. Not just with his own life, but with the Inquisitor's, which is the only life that matters.

And really, he's not sure there's any practical difference between this and Bull pinning him against the tower floor, or the wall of this very room. It's an uncomfortable realization for an ex-templar, one he pushes away so he can simply _feel_ , straining against the force holding him in place to make the pressure even stronger.

The air becomes only air once again, but Cullen stays where he is, waiting to be told what to do. Dorian doesn't disappoint, and his voice is back to that low, intimate murmur that brushes against Cullen's ear from all the way across the room. "Stand up," Dorian says, "and take off your clothes."

On his feet once again, Cullen takes off his shirt, folds it carefully, takes off his boots, lines them up neatly against the wall, takes off his trousers. As he begins to fold them, Dorian says, "Leave them and come here."

He does as he's told, letting his trousers lie where they fall.

Dorian, already naked, points to the bed, and Cullen lies down on his stomach, hands curling and uncurling at his sides. He reminds himself of weighted air, pinning him to the floor, and his hands relax just as Dorian sits across the backs of his legs.

At first, Dorian doesn't do anything more interesting than run his fingers up Cullen's back, like a sculptor inspecting a slab of marble before he begins his work. It might be soothing under other circumstances, but with Samson's name beating at his ears, Cullen isn't interested in being soothed. He wants to be fucked into the mattress until he's aware of nothing outside his skin, until the only name he hears is his own, in that low voice Dorian used before.

He tries to shift his weight, and realizes that when he wasn't paying attention, Dorian bound him in place with the same magic from earlier. It rests so lightly against his skin he can't feel it unless he moves.

"Harder," he whispers, and Maker bless him, Dorian knows what he means. The magic closes in, pressing against him from head to foot. Each breath requires just a little more effort than it should, and Cullen closes his eyes, flexing the muscles in his arms and legs to prove to himself that he can't move.

Dorian hums appreciatively. "You can do that again."

Cullen laughs, surprised as much as amused. Another thing he's unaccustomed to, among the many more esoteric things Bull and Dorian have shown him: laughing during sex. This is supposed to be serious, and laughing should undermine the intensity, but it doesn't. A little more of his tension drains away, and he deliberately summons back enough to tighten the muscles in his back one at a time, from his neck to the tops of his thighs, hoping to make Dorian laugh.

He's not disappointed.

Still laughing softly, Dorian stretches out on top of him, lips brushing against his hairline, hands stroking down his arms. He's half hard against Cullen's ass, and when Cullen tenses those muscles again, Dorian's laugh turns into another "hmmmm," this time right in his ear. The sound runs down his skin, leaving goosebumps behind.

Dorian kisses his neck and sits back up, his weight settling on Cullen's thighs once again. Eyes still closed, Cullen tries to guess what's coming as Dorian shifts around. He's not at all prepared for the spot of heat, small but intense, that blossoms on his lower back. Whatever it is, it feels hot enough to blister his skin, only to cool in a matter of seconds without doing any actual damage.

There's some residue left behind, but Cullen doesn't have time to think about it. Another touch of heat, this time on the back of his neck. Before that spot has finished cooling, Dorian places another, and another. Each one burns too hot for just a moment and fades quickly, pain flashing across his skin in brief, brilliant touches. Dorian's fingers trace the outline of each spot before he moves on to the next one. Cullen lies still and breathes deeply, riding the crest of each wave of pain, coming down in time to catch the next one on the way up.

When there isn't another wave, he tries to turn his head to see what's happening, but the magic pinning his shoulders effectively traps his head as well. He closes his eyes and tries to get his other senses to fill in for his limited vision. Dorian rises to his knees, his weight no longer on Cullen's legs but his body still close. If Cullen could move, he could stretch out his fingers and just touch Dorian's thighs.

Of course, if Cullen could move, he likely wouldn't be enjoying this half so much.

Dorian shifts again, and Cullen loses even the slight contact of Dorian's thighs against his. He's still trying to guess what's happening when Dorian grabs him by hip and shoulder to roll him onto his back, then tugs Cullen's hands up to the headboard. The magic around him relaxes for a second, long enough for his body to settle naturally against the mattress in this new position, then rushes back in to fill the gaps. Cullen thinks of wet sand at the ocean's shore, at the leading edge of the incoming waves.

He notices the lump in Dorian's hand, puts it together with the beeswax he can smell now that his nose isn't pressed into a pillow, and realizes what Dorian's been doing just as Dorian touches the wax to his hip. The candle isn't lit, but the wax turns to liquid as if it were. Tiny flames appear and disappear around Dorian's fingers as he lifts the wax back off Cullen's skin.

Anticipation shivers through Cullen, watching Dorian consider his options. He can see Dorian's hand descend now, can know exactly when the painful heat will come, his body tensing involuntarily against it. Dorian lets the wax run from his fingers into the crease at the top of Cullen's thigh and across his upper chest almost at his neck, then bends forward to draw a line from the crook of his elbow along the inside of his upper arm, almost to his armpit, stopping just short of the hair growing there. The heat sears down to his bones.

Cullen exhales as the wax cools, and opens his eyes, though he doesn't remember closing them. A few inches away, Dorian is smiling, watching his face and clearly enjoying his reaction. It's just a small smile, barely tilting one corner of his mouth, but Cullen wants suddenly and desperately to kiss him. Impossible with the magic holding him in place.

Is he allowed to ask, or does that go against Bull's explicit, and Dorian's implied, command to do what he's told within this room? He's still not sure what all the rules are, but Dorian is already leaning away and that's not right.

"I want...will you..." Embarrassment makes him stutter, and it only gets worse when Dorian pauses, his hand hovering over Cullen's other arm. He's not used to asking for what he wants, not in words. He wets his lips and whispers, "Kiss me? Please."

There it is again, that brilliant smile that freezes his lungs. He's still breathless when Dorian kisses him, stealing any hope that he might get enough air anytime soon. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters but Dorian's mouth, and the obscene things he can do with it. His tongue slides against Cullen's, teeth biting at his lower lip before he's once more licking into Cullen's mouth.

Only when Cullen has lost track of everything else does Dorian lift his head. They're still close enough that his lips brush Cullen's as he says, "Like that?" He's smiling, and he doesn't wait for an answer before kissing him again. Cullen meets him eagerly, trying to answer the only way he can.

The door rattling against the bolt startles both of them. Dorian grins, gives him a last quick kiss, and rolls off the bed, which is a lot colder without him. Watching Dorian's ass as he crosses the room isn't a bad consolation, though.

Dorian unbars the door and opens it halfway, standing so that his foot and leg prevent it from opening farther and possibly revealing Cullen, who's still pinned to the bed by Dorian's magic. By the catcalls and whistles from the hallway, at least a few of Bull's Chargers have escorted their namesake up to his room, and they've all just gotten an eyeful of Dorian, naked and hard.

"You almost missed your chance," Dorian says to Bull, eliciting another round of laughter and whistling. His next words are pitched louder, aimed at whoever's with Bull. "I'm terribly sorry, but this is a private party, and the rest of you weren't invited."

"Hear that, boys?" Krem says, and even from here, over the terrified pounding of his heart, Cullen can hear the laugh in Krem's voice. "Looks like the chief doesn't need our help to find his bed after all."

"I'm an excellent guide," Dorian says, and then Bull is in the room and the door is shut and bolted, and Cullen can breathe again, even if a few last jokes come faintly through the wall.

Bull takes in the scene, both eyebrows raised, a slow smile curling his lips. "Maybe I'm not as tired as I thought I was."

"I certainly hope not," Dorian murmurs, grabbing Bull's horns to pull his head down for a kiss. It's as thorough as the one he gave Cullen a minute ago, and watching it with his own mouth still warm from Dorian's lips makes Cullen achingly hard. Bull's hands cupping Dorian's ass don't help, broad palms and blunt fingers pulling Dorian up onto his toes.

Cullen focuses on breathing.

Too soon and not soon enough, Dorian's heels thump back to the floor and he slips out of Bull's grasp to return to the bed. If the view when Dorian walked away was nice, the sight of him coming back with his cock hard and his lips red defies Cullen's ability to apply any superlatives. His mouth is hanging open and he can't bring himself to care, not even when Dorian smirks at him. Behind Dorian, Bull shakes his head, laughing hard enough they can probably hear him in the hallway.

"Are you only planning to watch?" Dorian asks over his shoulder.

"Fuck no," Bull says, still laughing.

"Then you might consider at least taking off your sword," Dorian says as he reaches the bed.

Cullen loses track of Bull as Dorian crawls up his body. Another one of life's mysteries: how he manages to make crawling look enticing rather than awkward. He does it, though, biting and licking Cullen's skin as he makes his way up the bed. Halfway, he stops to wrap his lips around just the head of Cullen's cock and swirl his tongue across the tip. Cullen exhales in a rush, but before he's even finished that breath, Dorian is already continuing up his body.

Dorian stretches himself out on top of Cullen, legs apart so he can grind their cocks together as they kiss again. It's a light kiss, little flicks of Dorian's tongue that disappear before Cullen can chase them. In contrast, his hips press down almost painfully hard, and lightning bites the skin along Cullen's ribs.

Cullen's arm moves on its own, the magic rearranging his body to get his arm out of the way as Dorian grips his chin and turns his head to one side. Bull is there, his back to them as he scrubs himself with a wet cloth. Sword, boots, and pants are already gone, and Cullen can watch the muscles in Bull's legs and back moving, can admire the patterns created by scars and flickering candlelight. Dorian's enjoying the same view, if his appreciative hum means anything.

Bull tosses the cloth into the basin and turns, catching them at watching. With a wicked grin, he reaches down and strokes himself, hand moving slowly, pausing occasionally to run his thumb over the tip of his cock. As he does it, he looks right back at them, as if what he sees is every bit as interesting as what they see. Cullen imagines what they must look like from Bull's angle, pressed hip to hip and cheek to cheek, and his hips flex against Dorian's, the only movement he can make.

About the time Cullen begins to wonder if Bull has changed his mind about just watching, he crosses to the bed and stretches out beside them. Dorian turns Cullen's head and his own again, changing the angle so Bull can bring his mouth against both of theirs at the same time. It's an open-mouthed kiss, tongues tangling until Cullen doesn't know whose is whose, and he can't stop a groan.

Bull's thumb traces the line where Dorian's and Cullen's chests meet, following the join all the way to Dorian's thigh where it rests against Cullen's waist. Cullen can't feel his hand after that, but from the way Dorian gasps and arches into him, Bull's done something to Dorian's ass. The whole time, their mouths move together, kissing hungrily until Cullen's jaw aches.

"I don't want to watch," Bull says, pulling away a little. He's still close enough that his breath blows across Cullen's face, warm and smelling faintly of the beer he was drinking with the Chargers. He looks at Cullen. "But you're going to."

Without giving him a chance to think about what that means, Bull sits up, pulling Dorian with him. Dorian is laughing as Bull manhandles him into position, both of them at the other end of the bed straddling one of Cullen's legs, Bull behind Dorian. Cullen can feel someone's foot resting against his, but without being able to move, he doesn't know whose.

A palm between Dorian's shoulders pushes him down onto his hands, his mouth right at Cullen's groin. Cullen doesn't know where to look: at Dorian's mouth on his cock, or at Bull tugging the stopper out of a vial with his teeth. Cork out of the way, the vial and Bull's hand disappear behind Dorian. It's impossible to see what he's doing, and equally impossible to miss the way Dorian jerks and makes a sound that might have been a cry if he didn't currently have his mouth around Cullen's entire length.

If this is Bull's definition of "watching," Cullen thinks one of them doesn't understand the word. Not that he's complaining, not with Dorian moaning around his cock, hips rocking back against Bull's hand. Cullen strains against the binding magic, able only to lift his head a few inches. His hips don't move even that much.

One of Bull's hands smoothes over Dorian's back, the other still out of sight. Dorian chokes and lifts his mouth away so he can rest his forehead on Cullen's thigh, panting and whispering in Tevene as Bull holds his hips tightly. Bull's smiling, and when his eye meets Cullen's, the smile broadens.

"Not until I say," he says, and Cullen nods.

Dorian's back arches as he presses his forehead harder against Cullen's leg. "Please," he whispers, and Bull drops a kiss to one shoulder before his hips start to move in short, sharp thrusts.

Memories overlap in Cullen's head, fucking and being fucked, and he doesn't know which of them he wants to trade places with more. It flashes through his head to wonder what it would be like to have both, Dorian moving under him and Bull moving inside him, and he trembles with the effort needed to stay in control of his body.

Bull slides a hand under Dorian's chest, lifting him up and away from Cullen. When he's upright, Bull holds him there with one hand while the other palms his cock, rubbing in slow strokes as Dorian gasps. Cullen finally understands what Bull meant about watching: the only contact he has with either of them is from toes to knee on one side, and he can't move to change that.

Then Dorian opens his eyes, and Cullen loses all the air in his lungs yet again. If he expected to feel superfluous here, just a lump in the bed mostly getting in the way of Bull fucking Dorian hard, the look Dorian gives him knocks that idea right out of his head. He may not be able to touch either of them with his hands, but his hands aren't his only tool.

Up until now, he's tried to keep at least some control over his face so he doesn't just lie there staring like a fool. Now he lets that control go, letting all the heat in his body show on his face as his eyes move over Dorian and Bull. He wants to put his mouth everywhere, but more than that, he wants them to see how much he wants it.

"Fuck," Dorian breathes, his face flushed and his nipples hard. His cock slides through Bull's fist, one of his own hands rubbing across the head.

"He's watching," Bull murmurs in Dorian's ear, looking at Cullen, whose gaze jumps back and forth between the two of them. "He's watching you, and he's thinking about how you taste, and how it feels to do this to you," he slams his hips into Dorian's, hard, and Dorian cries out, "and how it feels when you do it to him."

Dorian is shaking, and Cullen can feel tremors starting in his own thighs. He's not sure how much more he can take, and no one's even touching him. It's impossible to look away from Dorian writhing between Bull's hand and Bull's cock. Not that Cullen hasn't seen it before, but always before something else was happening, someone's hands or mouth were on him. Now all he can do is watch every sensation as it moves through Dorian.

Dorian's release splashes hot across Cullen's chest and stomach, and Cullen feels his balls drawing tight. Pressure is building at the base of his cock, and he doesn't know how much longer he can hold back, especially when Bull groans into Dorian's hair, holding him tight as both their bodies go rigid.

Eventually, Bull's eye opens, and when it does, it goes straight to Cullen's, whose heart is trying to pound its way out of his chest. He's sucking in air through clenched teeth, holding desperately to control that seems perpetually one breath away from giving out.

Bull lowers Dorian carefully back to his hands and knees, and Dorian steadies himself with one hand against Cullen's stomach, fingers moving in the mess there. Lightning is already flickering between his fingertips again, making Cullen's skin tingle, and Cullen begs, "Stop, please, I _can't_..." He doesn't make it any farther before Dorian licks his cock from root to crown, and words fail him.

The lightning crawls over him, and his hips try to lift off the bed as Bull wraps one hand around him below Dorian's mouth. "I can't," he tries again.

"Then don't," Bull says, his hand and Dorian's mouth moving together.

Cullen hopes, fleetingly, that the words are permission, because Dorian does something with his tongue at the same time Bull presses one finger inside him, and his control shatters. The magic holding him down is the only thing that keeps him from fucking Dorian's mouth, and his body convulses against the restraints, his throat closing as shock after shock runs through him. Dorian sucks him through it all, until even that becomes too much.

As soon as the magic holding him vanishes, he pushes Dorian's head away from his cock, then pulls him up to kiss him, their bodies shaking against each other. One of Bull's hands rubs his calf, the touch soothing, and as Dorian flops out on his chest, Cullen pries open his eyes long enough to focus on Bull and smile at him. He's aware it's probably a soppy smile, but he doesn't care, and the smile he gets back is entirely satisfied.

Samson's name is still whispering in the back of his head, but Cullen's had plenty of practice at ignoring such things.

Bull's bed hasn't gotten any bigger, but they've gotten pretty good at fitting into it together. It helps that Dorian always wants to be as close as possible, and even sound asleep, he'll go in search of a warm body if one isn't close enough. Bull can only sleep on his back, but Cullen can lie on his side, back against Bull's ribs and Dorian tucked into the curve of his body, and they fit well enough. Cullen would never admit how well, because that would require him to admit that he sleeps far better here than in his own bed.

Dorian burrows into him, pulling Cullen around him almost like a blanket, and Cullen curls a hand around his arm, reminded of Dorian's burned robe when the skin under his hand is oddly ridged. Too relaxed to think about what he's doing, Cullen runs his fingers down Dorian's arm, exploring the new scars. Whatever potion the surgeon gave him, it's done its job well: the scars could be two or three years old, pale and only faintly puckered.

Dorian catches his hand to stop him, locking their fingers together.

"Do they hurt?" Cullen asks.

"Only in my head," Dorian says. His thumb rubs against their interlaced fingers. "It will pass eventually."

There's no deliberate deeper meaning in the words, Cullen knows, but they strike a chord in him none-the-less. "I know what you mean," he murmurs into Dorian's hair.

Dorian's fingers tighten on his, and they're still locked tight when Cullen falls asleep.


	10. I Just Need to Hear Voices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends when will you get here?  
> Hey friends I need to hear voices  
> I don't care what you talk about  
> Hey friends I just need to hear voices  
> Could you bring the manual?  
> Bring the repair manual?  
> Something has really gone wrong here, here  
> Something has really really gone wrong.
> 
> Franz Ferdinand (the group, not the archduke), "Treason! Animals"  
> *******  
> I'm unexpectedly out of town this week, without access to my computer. The next "real" chapter is written, but Pages is thwarting my attempts to get it formatted properly, and I'm throwing up my hands at this point. I'll post it when I get home (probably next weekend, possibly two chapters at once), but in the meantime, have some drabbles that do nothing to advance the plot but which I could write directly on AO3.

_Cassandra_

She finds Cullen by the practice ring, helmet under one arm as he paces in measured strides that everyone around him mistakes for calm. She's watched prisoners circle their cells in just this way, searching for an escape even while they know one doesn't exist. Here where anyone could see, Cullen hides the trapped feeling, but she's heard his voice break and watched his body shake with the need for lyrium. The freedom of burning muscles and dark bruises is the only relief she can offer, so she settles her shield and returns his nod with one of her own.

 

_Krem_

He finds Cullen in the Herald's Rest, halfway through the one drink he'll allow himself tonight. Krem's grateful for that restraint: he's watched too many people try to fix one problem with another. Relationships or addictions, the result is always ugly. When the Chief first asked him to keep an eye on Cullen, Krem worried he'd be playing mother to a man bent on drinking himself senseless, but the commander doesn't need his help there.

Not that Krem's entirely sure what help he _is_ providing, and Cullen never asks for anything, so Krem just sits and keeps the stories flowing.

 

_Dorian_

He finds Cullen in the garden, waiting for him by the chess board. Every piece is exactly centered in its square, a small victory against the shaking Dorian knows still plagues him. He's felt that tremor when Cullen touches him, and he knows it's more, or maybe less, than eagerness or desire.

Still, if there's one thing he learned in Tevinter, it's how to pretend that everything's fine even when it feels like he's being eviscerated with a dull and jagged knife, so he smiles and flirts and cheats outrageously until Cullen laughs, and the knife becomes a little sharper.

 

_Bull_

He finds Cullen waiting for him in his room above the inn. Bull knows by looking that this is one of the bad days: Cullen's shrugging his shoulders and rubbing his neck like his skin is too small for him.

Sometimes Cullen visits because he wants to; tonight is more about need, but Bull doesn't mind. The sight of Cullen, stripped and on his knees with his forehead pressed to the mattress, is something to be savored, so Bull lets his fingers trace the old scars and new welts on Cullen's back and does his best to be very distracting.

 

_Cole_

He doesn't need to find Cullen, because the pain is always there, twisted and tangled. Angry and afraid and ashamed, a knot made of knots that Cullen guards viciously. Most people want help, even if they don't know what they need, but Cullen turns all his hatred inward at the thought of asking, much less accepting. There's no loose thread to tug, and the Inquisitor has taught him not to cut the knots apart, so Cole watches from a distance and hopes it was right to send the Iron Bull to the top of Cullen's tower all those months ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: For anyone curious, there's now [a prologue-ish thing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4307496) that explains what Cole said to Bull.


	11. Where No Sea Runs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Light breaks where no sun shines;  
> Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart  
> Push in their tides...
> 
> Dylan Thomas
> 
> (A poem that has its odd moments, but I like parts of it very much.)

At a positively unholy hour of the morning, Cullen meets Leliana, Josephine, and the Inquisitor at the war table to discuss what they've learned about Samson's base. The morning is spent reviewing what information they have and arguing about the best way to attack without giving Samson time to escape. As heated as the discussion gets, when they break for lunch they're all in agreement, everything done but the doing. By the next morning, they're on the road riding hard for Orlais.

Cullen's never known anything to go according to plan, and he doesn't know why he's surprised that their assault on Samson's camp doesn't go the way they expected. Samson gone, the camp destroyed but for scraps and rags they could sift through for hours without finding anything useful, and Maddox dead by his own hand, taking his secrets with him. Even through his grief, Cullen can admire the bravery in that. Or perhaps, for a man made Tranquil, it wasn't bravery so much as it was calculation, a cold and brutal arithmetic that brought Maddox to only one possible solution.

They leave Dumat's shrine before dark, the lyrium making Cullen's hands shake and head ache. Maddox's body, strapped to a pack mule, is a silent accusation, a tangible reminder of all Cullen's failures. He wants desperately to hit something; preferably Samson, but he's not in a particularly discriminating mood.

The ride back to Skyhold seems to take months instead of days, the Orlesian countryside passing in blinks and jerks. Cullen's focus is divided evenly between holding on to his temper, and masking exactly how much effort that takes. Fortunately, they ride inside a circle of Inquisition soldiers, inside a larger circle of scouts, through lands the Inquisitor has brought to heel with sword and pen both. If any danger lingers, it's been dealt with long before they pass, and Cullen's inattention doesn't lead him into yet another failure.

Skyhold is home now, and just riding through the gate relieves some of the pressure in his chest. He draws a deep breath as he dismounts, letting the bitter cold of the Frostbacks drive out a little more of the rage before he turns to see to Maddox. The party's mages have done what they could to preserve the body, and it looks no different than it did a week ago when they left the shrine.

Cullen isn't sure that's a kindness. He's had enough of rotting corpses to last ten lifetimes, but some outward sign that Maddox is no longer among the living would save Cullen having to remind himself of it every time he looks at that still face. The poison did its work more subtly than a sword, if no less effectively, and it's too easy to forget he carries a dead man. Washed clean of the dirt and blood from the shrine, Maddox looks...not asleep, but like a sick man feigning sleep, hoping some unwanted visitor will go away. The irony isn't lost on Cullen, that in death the Tranquil's face shows traces of the emotions he was denied in life.

There are a dozen people in earshot who could carry Maddox, and several of them try to intervene when Cullen begins to work the knots tying the body in place, but one flat look is all it takes to send them off again. He carries Maddox's body to the surgeons, who take charge of it with hardly a second glance. Skyhold has no shortage of bodies, even if they're not rotting; no one who passes by the surgeons' tents can pretend that the Inquisition isn't at war.

Maddox is laid out with the other Inquisition dead, and Cullen wonders if he would appreciate the respect, or scorn the gesture when it comes from his enemies. It's a pointless question: the man Maddox was at his death wouldn't have felt either, and the man he was before he was made Tranquil was...well, was a boy, not a man. Cullen wonders anyway, his hand cradling Maddox's head, thumb resting over the rayed sun burned into the skin between his eyebrows. He strokes the old scar lightly, remembering Dorian's arm and the burns a potion could heal but never erase.

One of the surgeons begins to work on cleaning the body, and Cullen turns away to go in search of Cassandra.

He finds her outside the smithy, hunched over a book and so intent that she doesn't notice him until he clears his throat. She jumps to her feet, hiding the book behind her leg even as her expression dares him to comment. Then she looks at him more closely, and says, "Let me get my armor."

It would annoy her no end if Cullen were to say it, but she's much like Bull in this regard: he doesn't have to ask, or even speak, for her to know what he needs. If not for Dorian, Cullen thinks he might go days without talking about anything not specifically related to the Inquisition and its army. Well, Dorian and Krem, but the Chargers never ask more of him than that he listen to their stories, and share one of his own if he's so inclined. Dorian is the only one who insists on shining a light into the dark places in Cullen's head.

Those aren't really the places Cullen wants to look at, especially not now. He blocks them off as he picks up a dulled practice sword, narrowing his focus so it extends only into the next few seconds.

Despite the long ride, despite the fight that preceded it and the equally long ride that preceded _that_ , a restless energy drives Cullen around the ring for hours. Even Cassandra is no match for him tonight, not in terms of sheer endurance, though she still wins more than her share of their fights. Krem takes a turn against him, and Bull, then Cassandra again, then other Chargers, until finally, finally, Cullen's too tired to even raise his sword.

He leaves the practice ring to whoops and applause from his soldiers, and he forces himself to nod and smile in acknowledgement, even if he doesn't stay to talk. Cassandra and Bull between them are more than capable of holding the crowd's attention, leaving him free to escape to his office.

Climbing the ladder to his bedroom is almost more than he can handle, and once there, he has to rest a while before he can do anything else. He can barely undress, and he's still struggling to wash away the grime of too many days' travel when the ladder creaks. It's hardly a surprise to see Bull's horns appear through the hole in the floor.

"Need some help?" Bull asks as he steps off the ladder.

Cullen says nothing. He feels brittle, an ill-made sword waiting to shatter.

Bull takes the cloth away from him, and Cullen doesn't try to resist. As Bull is washing him with efficient strokes, the ladder creaks again, and Cullen is equally unsurprised to see Dorian. He's dressed in the plain linen shirt and trousers Cullen's only seen a few times, usually just before they hit the floor in Bull's room. His face is a little too calm, his eyes tight.

Dorian says to Bull, "I brought the food you asked for." He doesn't look at Cullen, which is a small mercy.

"Thanks," Bull says, turning Cullen with one hand on his shoulder to scrub his back.

If Cullen were a little less tired, the silence in the room would be oppressive, but he's exhausted and the silence wraps around all three of them like a blanket. Dorian says little, Bull says less, and Cullen says nothing, just lets them wash him and feed him and put him to bed. At no point in the process does Bull ask his opinion or give him a choice about any of it.

When he's tucked into bed like a child, Bull stands with his arms crossed, looking down at Cullen like he's waiting on the answer to a question. Dorian wanders around the room, not looking at either of them, waiting on the same answer as Bull.

Cullen doesn't want them here, but when he opens his mouth to say so, his traitorous tongue says, "Stay?" Faded echoes of his earlier restlessness move through his body.

His bed is no larger than Bull's, and Cullen's skin flinches away from any contact, but they manage it, Cullen on one side, Bull on the other with Dorian stretched out on top of him. Bull's hands stroke Dorian, long slow strokes from shoulders to knees that make Dorian twitch as if he wants to arch into the touch but is trying to stop himself. Cullen can't find the words he needs, so he settles for kicking the blankets off and wrapping a hand around his own cock.

Bull chuckles, and something sharp in Cullen's chest eases the tiniest bit.

Neither of them touches him, but he's aware of their awareness of him as they touch each other, and that's enough. Dorian's jerky movements smooth out, become sinuous, and he makes noises deep in his throat that lift Cullen's hips briefly off the mattress. Moonlight leaches the color from everything, rendering Bull and Dorian into varying shades of grey that slide together, mouths and hands moving in time to a low chorus of "yes" and "please" and "more."

Cullen strokes his cock while he watches them, muscles so tired the hold barely qualifies as a grip. The pain in his hand and arm is welcome, though, and he draws it into himself to feed the heat building inside him. At the end, when he can feel his body teetering on the edge of release, he lays his free hand on top of Bull's where it grips Dorian's hip, sliding his fingers between Bull's so that he can touch both of them together.

He doesn't know how long he sleeps afterward, only that it's still dark when he wakes from the routine terror of Kinloch Hold. For once, he's managed to exhaust himself to the point that his body can't work up more than a passing shiver of desire, and barely more anger than that. The fear rushes in to fill the gaps, holding him in place and leaving him just awake enough to know that he should be able to move, but not awake enough to actually do it. His paralysis gives the fear claws to dig in deeper, and he would swear the demon's prison is humming around him again, crawling over his skin, the demon itself crouched on his chest.

A hand on his shoulder breaks the spell, and he jerks so hard he almost tumbles to the floor. Bull catches him before he falls, supporting him until he regains enough control to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Shit," Cullen mutters, resting his elbows on his knees so he can hide his face in his hands. Bull says nothing, just stands beside the bed, so close their knees are almost touching. If Cullen were to lean forward a few inches, he could rest his head on Bull's stomach. He doesn't, but it steadies him to know that he could.

"I didn't mean to wake you," Cullen says, when he thinks his voice won't betray him.

"I was up anyway," Bull says.

Cullen doesn't believe him, but he doesn't argue, because he can hear the important truth under the surface lie. "It was just a dream," he says. He feels like he owes Bull some kind of explanation, even a weak one. "Something that happened a long time ago."

Behind him, Dorian sleeps on, his breathing as comforting in its own way as Bull's nearness.

Eventually, Bull asks, "Have you ever been to Seheron?" When Cullen shakes his head without looking up, Bull says, "It's been years, but I remember it."

Bull talks for a long time then, describing the island's colorful birds and its slaughtered children in the same even tone. In the empty places between his words, between stories of the atrocities committed by the Siccari and by the Fog Warriors, Cullen sees the shadows of the Ben-Hassrath and the man who broke to become the Iron Bull. He leans forward, closing the distance between them to drop his forehead against Bull's hip. Bull's hand, steady as ever, combs through his hair as the stories continue.

There's no way to tell how long they stay like that, only that it's still dark when gentle pressure guides his head back to the pillow. Cullen moves without thinking, sliding until his back is pressed to Dorian's. There's too much tension in the muscles there, and Cullen realizes that Dorian isn't as asleep as his breathing made it sound. He says nothing, though, and Cullen is too tired to stay awake and think about what any of it means.

###

He's alone when he wakes, sunlight peeking through the holes in the canvas above his head, and the first thing he feels is a vague regret. He used to wake up alone all the time, but somewhere along the way, he grew accustomed to drooling on Bull's shoulder while Dorian tries to steal all the heat from his body. Like a lizard on a rock, Cullen said once, and Dorian looked offended while Bull laughed.

For a drowsy moment, Cullen lies still, breathing deeply. The other side of the bed might be empty, but it smells like Dorian: some spice Cullen can't name, overlaid with the smell of lightning. Faintly under that, the leather-and-metal smell that always makes him think of Bull.

Then his mind comes fully awake. Sunlight. If there's sunlight coming into his room, then it's hours past when he normally rises. He jumps out of bed, only to nearly fall as every muscle in his body reminds him exactly how much he abused himself yesterday. His legs cramp and he can barely stagger across the room to the basin.

A small vial sits on the table beside the pitcher. Cullen pulls the stopper free and sniffs cautiously, jerking his head back at the sharpness of the elfroot. It tastes no better than any of the hundreds of other healing potions he's taken in his life, and Cullen follows it with water as the effects spread through his body. By the time he's cleaned the bitterness from his mouth, he can walk without feeling like an old man.

After everything else, he doesn't know why he's surprised that his clothes are folded neatly on top of the chest. In fact, everything is exactly as he normally leaves it, even his boots lined up precisely against the wall. If he couldn't still smell Dorian and Bull on his skin, he'd think he'd imagined them here last night.

There are half a dozen meanings he could assign to this, from petty ("If you want to pretend we're not part of your life, then fine.") to thoughtful ("It's important to you that everything be put away, and so it's important to us.") to completely mundane ("There's not much else to do up here but put things away."), and Cullen doesn't spend much time trying to decide which one he's supposed to hear. They all make him uncomfortable in different ways, except perhaps for the last.

_I don't deserve this._ The thought comes out of nowhere, which is where he banishes it back to, before he ends up thinking too hard about what, exactly, "this" is, and whether it's unjustified punishment or unearned reward.

He has reason to think it again a few hours later when Mairyn escorts a templar into his office, a grey-faced woman in battered armor who looks one short step from breaking. Cullen wonders uncomfortably if this is what Bull saw in him, that first night on top of his tower. There's no time for such thoughts, so he sets them aside, knowing they'll be back to disturb his sleep tonight. It's an acceptable trade, if it lets him do his job now.

The templar snaps to attention as soon as she reaches the exact center of the room, her rigid posture doing its best to make up for her otherwise sorry state. "Knight-Lieutenant Leontine Deveraux, originally of Montsimmard, sir!"

Cullen studies her for a moment while she stares at the wall above his head as if awaiting punishment. When he stands, her gaze shifts minutely so she's still not meeting his eyes.

"What brings you to Skyhold, Knight-Lieutenant?" he asks at last.

That gets her attention. Her eyes meet his briefly before she returns to inspecting his wall. "Sir. I was told the Inquisition was in need of fighters, and I want to fight."

"There's no shortage of fighting right now," Cullen says neutrally. "And most of the templars are currently doing their best to tear the Inquisition apart. Is there a reason you want to join us?"

"The Inquisition is doing what no one else would," she says, her nostrils flaring. Cullen wonders if she even realizes that she's swaying on her feet. "I didn't become a templar so I could terrorize people who only want to feed their families, or to stand by while someone else does it."

"So you left the order."

"The order is broken." A little color comes back into her face as she touches her breastplate, the burning sword nearly unrecognizable under the dents and the mud. "I can't fix it, but I'll save what I can rather than follow blindly into hell."

How much smaller would Corypheus's army be, if a few more templars had taken that stance? And if the Grey Wardens had done so, would the Inquisition have lost so many soldiers taking Adamant?

Of course, it could all be lies and misdirection to let a traitor into Skyhold, but so many people flow into the camps every day that Cullen has to leave such questions to Leliana and trust in the Inquisitor's seemingly miraculous ability to survive nearly anything. The only reason Leontine is here, in his office, is because she was a templar, and Cullen has left instructions that any templar who comes to Skyhold should be sent to him first.

"Well, Knight-Lieutenant," he says, "the Inquisition will be happy to put your sword to good use. Space within Skyhold is somewhat limited, but my clerk will show you where you can camp, and provide you with a tent if you have none of your own." There will also be a trip to the paymaster to get her on the rolls, and a trip to the quartermaster to find some armor less likely to get her shot by her own side, and a dozen other minor details Cullen no longer has to remember, because Mairyn remembers them for him.

He sits again, attention already turning back to the papers on his desk, but he looks back up in puzzlement when Leontine doesn't move. "Was there something else?"

She licks her lips, all the color gone from her face once more. The swaying is back, too, the motion making him faintly queasy. "You don't take lyrium anymore," she says in a rush, so quickly he doesn't understand her at first. While he's still puzzling out the words, she adds, "I stopped taking it three weeks ago."

If he weren't already sitting, his knees would give way as he realizes what she wants from him. Horror grips him, and he stares at her as if her skin is bursting open to release an abomination right in front of him.

As her gaze is still on the wall above his head, she doesn't seem to realize the effect her words are having. "I was hoping you could help me," she says softly. "The pain is starting, like my bones are breaking, and I see things, and it's _in me_...." She shakes her head, a sleeper waking from a bad dream only to find that the monsters are real.

"Blood and breath and bone," he whispers, almost as much a prayer as the one he says daily to push the memory of Kinloch Hold back into the dark.

"Yes," she says with relief. "You understand. No one else does, and I don't know what to do."

And he _does_? Andraste's mercy, what did he do to deserve this? This is torture, as perfect as anything the demon ever did to him. This woman, this _fellow templar_ , asking him for something he can't even give himself, and looking at him as if he has all the answers she needs: this is the kind of pain that makes him want to vomit, or scream, or hit something.

"We'll...talk later," he says somehow, and Mairyn, ever attentive, puts a hand on Leontine's elbow to steer her out of his office.

As soon as the door is closed behind them, Cullen throws open his window and leans out, letting his stomach empty itself where at least no one will find the evidence. His nose and eyes burn as his stomach heaves, acid scorching every inch of the inside of his skull. Even after there's nothing left to come up, his guts spasm until the muscles ache and he's spitting pure bile down at the ground far below.

When he's reasonably sure he's not going to vomit on himself, he straightens. As soon as the windowsill is no longer supporting his weight, his joints turn to molten iron, burning and liquid, and he falls to the floor. On his knees with the wall pressing against the top of his head, he wraps his arms around his chest and tries to remember how to breathe.

The sound of his door opening sends him into a panicked scramble. "I-I dropped...I dropped my pen!" he says while he's still staggering upright, his face turned away from the room as he tries to remember what a normal expression feels like.

"Must have been a pretty important pen," Bull says, and Cullen lets his chin fall to his chest, panic subsiding. He's not thrilled to have Bull see him like this, but better Bull than anyone else. His knees unlock and he doesn't fight it, except to ensure that when he hits the floor again, he ends up sitting rather than crouched over like a beaten slave. He keeps his eyes closed and rests his forehead on his knees.

Bull shuts and bolts the door, then crosses to the other two doors and bolts them as well. Cullen listens to his footsteps, to the bolts sliding into place and then to the splashing of water, and thinks how much this is like being blindfolded. The resemblance is soothing, and when Bull drapes a damp cloth over the back of his neck, Cullen's able to slide it around to wipe the mess off his face.

"There was a new templar today," he says, his voice burned to roughness by the acid.

"Ah," Bull says. "And is this new templar taking lyrium?"

Why is Cullen surprised that Bull knows exactly what question to ask? "No. She stopped three weeks ago."

Bull doesn't say anything, but his hand comes to rest on Cullen's neck, squeezing gently.

"She wants my help," Cullen says. "As if I have any idea what to do!"

"She wants to borrow your strength," Bull says, and Cullen squints up at him in confusion. "It's what people do when they need more than they've got. They look around for someone who's got some to spare."

"I don't have any to give her." The words are painful, no matter how true. He drops his forehead back to his knees so he doesn't have to look at Bull.

"There's no shame in that," Bull says. His thumb is digging into Cullen's shoulder now, forcing the muscles to relax whether they want to or not. "Any more than there's shame in her looking to you. Do you think less of her for it?"

"I hate her for it," Cullen says, another painful truth that he hates himself for, just as much as he hates her.

But Bull only chuckles and works his fingers up Cullen's neck. "Nobody likes a thief."

"You just said it wasn't shameful."

"It's not shameful to steal bread when you're starving. Doesn't mean the person you stole from is going to like you for it."

Cullen gets a sinking feeling he knows too well from a hundred battles: recognizing he's made a mistake right before the consequences bite him in the ass. "I steal from you," he whispers, neck and shoulders knotting up again.

"No," Bull says gently. His hand stops, cupping the back of Cullen's head, pulling it close enough that he can kiss one temple. "You can't steal something I'm giving away." Cullen feels the mouth against his skin move in a smile. "Just think of me as a Chantry sister."

Cullen pictures Bull in a chanter's robes and chokes on a laugh despite himself.

"What?" Bull demands. "You don't think I'd make a good sister?"

"I think you'd have to put on a shirt first," Cullen says. His throat still aches, the muscles in his stomach are so tired they tremble, and his face feels completely unnatural, but somehow, a smile pulls at his mouth as Bull laughs into his hair.


	12. This Narrow Plank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But would  
> I die to save a child?  
> Rescue my lover? Would  
> I run into the fiery barn  
> to release animals,  
> singed and panicked, from their stalls?
> 
> Bliss is belief, but where’s  
> the higher moral plane I roost on?  
> This narrow plank given to splinters.  
> No answers. Only questions.
> 
> Maxine W. Kumin, "In the Absence of Bliss"

A few days later, Cullen sits in the garden with Dorian and tries to avoid making eye contact with Leontine. The templar has been lurking in his peripheral vision almost constantly since their conversation, and he can watch lyrium withdrawal carve the lines in her face deeper every day. It doesn't change anything, though: he still has no strength to lend her.

Hoping that she'll be deterred if he's already clearly engaged in conversation, he says to Dorian, "I've been re-reading some of the old reports."

"Oh?" Dorian says, fingers alighting on three different pieces before he chooses a fourth and moves it. As he leans back, he picks up his cup in passing. "Interesting reading, was it?"

"Depressing." For a second, Cullen is distracted by Dorian's cup, and the wine he knows is in it. Something quality without a doubt, but that doesn't change the fact that the sun has barely reached noon. Aggregio Pavali or Garbolg's Backcountry Reserve, it can't be a good thing that Dorian's drinking before lunchtime.

Still, Cullen's hardly in a position to criticize anyone else's methods for dealing with...things. He sets aside the question of exactly how early in the day Dorian began drinking, and returns to the conversation at hand. "I was hoping to find something we could use against Corypheus when we reach the Wilds, but mostly I just seem to be reminding myself how thoroughly he's beaten us in the past."

"Well, at least we're all still alive to write reports and read them after," Dorian points out and Cullen shrugs in acknowledgement. Dorian starts to move another piece until Cullen jabs a warning finger in his direction.

"My turn," Cullen says, and shakes his head when Dorian only grins.

"My mistake."

Cullen snorts and makes a move of his own before saying, "I just finished the Inquisitor's report on the Fade. Almost as bad, reading it the second time, and it was bad enough the first time."

Dorian rolls his shoulders, smile turning sour. "Try living it."

It's not exactly promising, but it's as good an opening as any for the question that's been on his mind. "So," he says tentatively. "Temptation?"

He hopes there's no judgment in his voice, but of all the things he would have expected Dorian to fear most, temptation would never have occurred to him. The first time he read the report, he didn't know Dorian well enough to ask about it, but surely sharing a bed gives him some leeway to ask questions he couldn't ask before.

Dorian's mouth tightens, and he sets a pawn down with rather more force than necessary. "Temptation, yes. If you're going to mock someone, go mock Blackwall. At least I'm not afraid of _myself_."

"Ahhh, no," Cullen says. He understands Blackwall far too well, at least in this. Dorian looks up at him, confused and then enlightened. Cullen hurries on before this conversation somehow ends up being about him again. "I'm not mocking anyone. You just..." He stops, because they're in a public place in the middle of the day and he can't say, "You always seem to enjoy tempting me."

Is there a nonjudgmental way to say "Have you ever resisted temptation in your life?" Cullen decides there isn't, and waits to see if Dorian will spare them both the awkwardness.

By the look on his face, Dorian is giving serious thought to pretending he doesn't understand, but eventually he says, "What goes on between us? That's not temptation, that's fun."

Cullen is annoyed to find himself blushing, no matter how quietly Dorian spoke. How in Andraste's name can he blush over a comment like that, when last night, without a trace of embarrassment, he literally begged Dorian to fuck him?

At least his flush provides Dorian with a measure of amusement, lightening his scowl just a little. "Rather a lot of fun," Dorian adds, still too low for anyone else to hear.

"So if that's not temptation, then what is?" Cullen asks, before his face catches fire.

"My father," Dorian says immediately, still quiet but no longer amused. "He had this image in his head of what his son would be, and he wanted that so desperately that nothing else mattered. Not my happiness or sanity, and not his own moral code."

Cullen's not quite sure how that's temptation, so he keeps quiet. It must be written on his face, though, because Dorian glances at him and huffs in exasperation.

"There was something he wanted, wanted so much he convinced himself he needed it, and when he saw a way to get it, he grabbed hold with both hands." Dorian takes a long drink from his cup before adding bitterly, "That the only way to get what he 'needed' was through blood magic didn't stop him, despite a lifetime spent decrying it."

"Despite risking his son's mind," Cullen adds. That's the horrifying part to him, because blood magic has lost the power to shock him, no matter how much he still hates it. Horror requires a certain amount of novelty, and blood magic was very nearly routine in Kirkwall. The thought of Dorian mindless and drooling, on the other hand, is new enough to elicit something other than frustrated, exhausted anger.

Dorian is tapping his fingers thoughtfully against one of his rooks, and Cullen realizes they've gone three rounds without him ever getting a turn. He shoves a piece across the board, mostly for form's sake, and asks, "What's that look mean?"

"I think I hate him more for failing to live up to his principles," Dorian says, to Cullen's surprise. "He taught me my whole life that blood magic was the last resort of the weak-willed, and then he gave in to it. So either the thought of a son who preferred the company of men was so abhorrent that it justified anything, or one of the ideals I built my life on is false." He tilts his free hand outward briefly, inviting Cullen to opine.

Cullen rubs the back of his neck and declines the invitation, because he's not quite sure where to step in this conversation, even if he was the one to begin it. It hasn't gone the way he expected, that's for certain.

"He gave in," Dorian says, "and so I find myself wondering if I'll do the same, when it matters." He rolls a pawn between his fingers, spinning it idly around in its square. "Corypheus could destroy us all. What choice would I make, if I found myself facing him?"

"I think using blood magic to save the world is a little different than using it to make your own life easier." The admission costs him, but he knows what's at stake. If he thought it would help against Corypheus, he would open a vein for Dorian without hesitating.

Though maybe that's not saying much. Is "blood sacrifice to a Tevinter mage" a better or a worse death than the one his tower offers?

"Not easier," Dorian corrects, and Cullen has to think for a moment to remember what they're talking about. Halward Pavus. Yes. "His concern was the scandal. He didn't want to make his life easier, he wanted to make it less embarrassing."

"Then what I said is doubly true." Cullen actually stops to look at the board and think about the game for a moment. It's clear Dorian's mind isn't on it either: there are two of his pieces Cullen can take, and one of Cullen's that's likewise vulnerable. "I have trouble imagining you resorting to blood magic just to avoid embarrassment."

"Yes, well, first it's to save the world," Dorian says airily, "and before you know it, I'll be killing a dozen slaves every day to keep this fortress from freezing solid overnight." His smile is strained, behind the jest, and he doesn't meet Cullen's eyes as he takes a long drink from his cup.

"It's not that cold," Cullen says, the required next line in this little play. He captures one of Dorian's knights and sets it off to the side.

"Says the man wearing half of a bear."

"I can get you the other half."

"How very... _Fereldan_ of you." Dorian makes his next move without giving any sign that he's aware of the piece Cullen just captured. "If only all the choices were that easy. It's not usually saving the world versus heating a castle, is it? What if it's saving the lives of only a few people?" He rubs the heel of his palm against his forehead. "That's where I would fail, I think."

_Temptation._ Cullen's sorry he asked. Dorian doesn't look at him, but there's an intensity to the not-looking that tells him his name is on Dorian's list of "a few people," and he doesn't want to be. He doesn't want to be on anyone's list.

"But enough of that," Dorian says brightly. His tone is almost right, only the slightest bit off. If Cullen hadn't heard his voice across nearly the entire range of emotions, he would never know anything was wrong. "There must be better things we could be discussing, on what might be one of our last days alive."

_I should be so lucky,_ Cullen thinks, but it's mostly habit today. Despite the sullen weather and the nearly impossible fight he'll march his soldiers toward within the week, he's not feeling too bad. The withdrawal pains have eased off, and he hasn't had a nightmare in days, not since the night before Leontine arrived. Not that he can remember, anyway, and that's really all he can ask for. It does make him feel guilty for continuing to avoid the woman, but not guilty enough to do anything about it.

"What would you rather discuss?" he asks, taking the other of Dorian's unguarded pieces. He tries, with only moderate success, to ignore Dorian refilling the cup from a dark glass bottle. "And check, by the way."

Dorian scowls at the chess board, and that, too, is wrong by an infinitesimal degree that Cullen doesn't comment on. He mutters something obscene, words Cullen last heard when his mouth was around Dorian's cock, and Cullen feels himself blush very slightly.

"Did you want to forfeit?" Cullen asks, overly solicitous.

"Ha," Dorian mutters darkly. "Not a chance."

Since there at least three ways he could extricate himself, one of which would put him back on the offensive, Cullen simply waits. Dorian glances at him and catches the last, fading edge of the blush.

"It's so charming when you blush over so little," Dorian says, and he's regained his balance, the tone exactly normal. "It makes me wish there was something I could do to you, something worth blushing over."

"In the middle of the garden?" Cullen asks, amused. He tries not to make it sound like a challenge because Maker help him, Dorian would never back down from that.

"Which is exactly the problem." Dorian makes his move, rescuing his king for the moment. He's overlooked the best option, but Cullen isn't about to point that out to him. Dorian gets enough of an advantage between his cheating and his ability to distract Cullen simply by licking his lips.

As Dorian leans back in his chair, his expression is a clear warning that whatever he's about to say will do nothing good for Cullen's ability to focus on their game. "I knew a man once who could do the most amazing things with his feet. Under the table at parties, if you can believe it. He did like to live dangerously." Dorian smiles fondly at the memory.

Cullen thinks about his own feet. They're not terrible, as feet go, but they're most definitely a soldier's feet: callused and mildly deformed by too much walking. The thought of trying to do anything the least bit arousing with them is enough to make him snort out a laugh.

"You don't want my feet anywhere near your..." Cullen pauses, aware that certain words have a tendency to catch attention more readily than others, then settles for, "...near you."

"Who said anything about _your_ feet?" Dorian asks, without looking up from the board.

Cullen wants to laugh again, at what should be a ludicrous mental image, but he can't quite manage it. "Someone would notice," he points out, to himself as much as to Dorian.

"Not if I brought a table cloth," Dorian says, and Cullen makes a mental note to avoid sitting across from Dorian at any future Inquisitorial banquets.

Still, it makes him smile later, when he thinks about it. It's a small thing, but he holds to it, and to the memory of Bull's laughter against his skin.


	13. Shales and Husks of Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To horse, you gallant princes, straight to horse.  
> Do but behold yond poor and starved band,  
> And your fair show shall suck away their souls,  
> Leaving them but the shales and husks of men.
> 
> _Henry V_ , Act 4, Scene 2
> 
> I'm probably a bit too pleased with myself for this quote, but I picture Corypheus saying something of the sort (these lines are said by one of the French leaders, right before they get their asses handed to them).

If the planning for their march is hectic, the march itself is barely-controlled chaos. With nearly the entirety of the army on the move, not to mention all the allied forces that march with them, Cullen's life devolves into a series of more and less frantic meetings about a hundred things that are simultaneously mundane and critical. If it's not food and tent canvas, then it's boots and wagon wheels. He dreams of endless lists rather than of Kinloch Hold, of paper crushing him while soldiers bleed out at his feet for want of bandages and elfroot.

It's not an improvement. At least when he dreams of Kinloch Hold, on waking he can say his daily prayer and pretend it all happened to someone else.

In the depths of the Arbor Wilds, the wave that is the Inquisition's army crashes against the wall of the red templars, and nearly breaks. Cullen is everywhere, and sleep is something that happens to other people because he doesn't have time for it. There are potions to combat the fatigue, and if they make his hands shake when he's had too many too close together, it's no different than the shaking the lyrium has cursed him with for months.

When the army is finally well and truly stopped, just short of the temple, the Inquisitor calls a council, which Cullen tries hard not to think of as a last council. It involves too many people accustomed to being in charge, crowded into a tent designed more for portability than spaciousness, with all of the Inquisitor's inner circle present to bring the tension to the highest possible level. Cullen's head hurts before he's even taken his place beside the makeshift war table.

He doesn't let them see that, of course (he knows better than to show blood to wolves), and miracle of miracles, when the Inquisitor beckons him forward the others listen attentively as he lays out the plan. Well, most of them listen attentively. Varric looks like he's memorizing everything so that he can include it in his next book, and Sera is flicking something at one of the Orlesians, dotting the woman's back with specks of white, but they're both the Inquisitor's problem more than Cullen's.

Bull is likewise the Inquisitor's problem, but the Iron Bull, head of Bull's Chargers? He's most definitely Cullen's problem, and it's a problem that keeps him on edge in the rare moments when he doesn't have something better to worry about. _"If you stay, you do what I say."_ How far does that dictate extend? It can't apply here, not when Cullen has to be in control of all the Inquisition's forces, but does Bull see it differently?

Cullen doesn't hesitate when he reaches the part of the plan that requires the Chargers, no matter how his guts burn. He looks at the Iron Bull the way he's looked at the leader of every other faction, and gives orders in the same crisp tone. Bull nods, asks a few questions, and accepts Cullen's succinct answers with an easy salute and a "You got it, Boss." No smirk, no frown, no one-eyed winks. Cullen is deeply grateful: he doesn't have time for his personal life to interfere with this, the most important assault any of them have ever been part of.

He shouldn't be surprised that Bull acts like the professional he is, except that Cullen's seen too many professionals act like anything but, and if there's one thing guaranteed to make people irrational, it's sex.

He would know, wouldn't he?

Then it's time to explain the next part of the plan, and Cullen sets everything else aside. By the time they're done, he's hoarse, and very grateful for the water Mairyn brings him while the others file out of the tent. The water is flat and odd-tasting from whatever the mages have done to render it safe to drink, but he hardly notices as he drains the cup in a few gulps. He drinks the second cup more slowly, waiting until everyone else has left before gathering up his maps and papers. The shaking in his hands is getting more pronounced, and he doesn't want anyone else to see him fumble. Wars have been won on the faith soldiers placed in their commander, and lost for want of that same faith.

Once the maps are safely rolled into their cases, Cullen finds himself with nothing to do for the first time in weeks. Months. Certainly since before the Conclave. He almost takes the maps back out, just to have something to occupy himself, but Maker knows Mairyn doesn't need more work.

Instead, in the brief span of time left to him before the Inquisitor begins the final push for the temple, Cullen wanders the camp. He exchanges brief greetings with soldiers and the few members of the Orlesian court mad enough--or desperate enough for favor--to join their leader in the Wilds. When he first saw the Orlesian army on the march beside the Inquisition's forces, Cullen almost sent up a prayer of thanks to the Maker, but there's only one prayer he's said with any sincerity lately, no matter what blasphemies fall out of his mouth by habit. The prayer he taught himself after Kinloch Hold is the only one with any power in his life now.

Not that he says so to any of his soldiers. Plenty of them are on their knees praying to the Maker or His bride, and the Andrastians aren't the only ones spending their last minutes in devotions to those who can't or won't hear them. Most of the soldiers he passes are praying in their own ways, the elves to their Creators and the dwarves to their ancestors. There's even a handful of elven Viddathari sitting cross-legged and meditative while one of their number recites something in Qunlat.

Cullen pauses to listen, though he knows exactly two words in Qunlat, katoh and kadan, and he's still not sure what either of them actually means. "Katoh" might mean "stop" or "no", or it might mean something utterly ridiculous, Bull's sense of humor showing through in a joke so private no one else gets it.

"Kadan" is even more of a mystery. An endearment of some kind, perhaps, except that the Qun makes no allowance for love, and so why would the language have a word that implies it? Given that Bull uses it on Dorian, Cullen wouldn't be surprised to learn it's the Qunlat word for some spiky plant with beautiful but poisonous flowers. He's heard soldiers call each other asshole in loving tones too often to discount the possibility.

One of the Viddathari glances his way, and Cullen realizes he's been standing there long enough to intrude. He leaves them to their prayers, though they'd likely object to anyone referring to what they're doing as praying. It looks much the same to Cullen. Whether the words are directed at the Maker, the Creators, the Stone, or Koslun, the underlying plea is the same: a cry to someone stronger for protection, when the only protection to be had is in their swords and bows. It's no wonder, really, that so many insist that the Inquisitor is truly the Herald of Andraste. At least the Inquisitor hears them. Koslun is no more likely to appear on this battlefield than Fen'harel.

The low blast of a horn tells him it's time, so he turns back toward the command tent. Mairyn is waiting for him, his shield in her hands and her own resting against her leg. As he flexes his hand against the shield's grip, words come to his lips unbidden:

_O Maker, hear my cry:_  
_Seat me by Your side in death,_  
_Make me one within Your glory,_  
_And let the world once more see Your favor._

Words he said before every battle when he was a templar, and something about the weight of his shield and the awareness of the coming fight brings them to the tip of his tongue, where he lets them die unsaid. If he can fight against the pull of lyrium, he can fight against old habits, too. The tattered remains of his faith, what little he clung to after Kinloch Hold and Kirkwall and the Conclave, died at Haven. It's just taken him this long to realize it.

Habits being habits, the words aren't that easy to shake from his head, even if he doesn't say them aloud.

_For You are the fire at the heart of the world,_  
_And comfort is only Yours to give._

If that's true, it would go a long way toward explaining why the world seems decidedly lacking in comfort.

The Inquisitor's tent is right beside the command tent, and Cullen watches the last-minute preparations and decisions about who will accompany whom. When it's clear that Dorian will be one of people heading into the temple (always assuming they make it that far), Bull takes him aside for a brief, whispered conversation. Cullen can't hear what they say, but he can read the grim determination in Dorian's face well enough. Bull's expression is harder to interpret, until Dorian walks away with the Inquisitor, and Bull calls, "Watch your back, kadan."

He doesn't wait for Dorian's response, just turns to strap his sword across his back. His eye meets Cullen's for the briefest second, a glance so quick it's unlikely anyone else notices, but Cullen hears the message as clearly as if Bull shouted it.

Most people are watching the Inquisitor leaving camp, so Cullen steps closer to Bull, ostensibly to help him settle his sword and armor. All across the camp, soldiers are doing the same for each other, and no one looks twice at Cullen tightening a strap on Bull's armor.

"Watch your own back," Cullen says under his breath.

"I've got my Chargers," Bull says, just as quietly.

"And Dorian has the Inquisitor."

"Which means he'll be right where Corypheus is looking." Bull picks up his helmet and grins. "So let's see if we can keep these assholes too busy to help their boss."

It's not part of the Chant of Light, but it is a prayer Cullen can say with all his heart.


	14. All I Was, In Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But thy strong Hours indignant work’d their wills,  
> And beat me down and marr’d and wasted me,  
> And tho’ they could not end me, left me maim’d  
> To dwell in presence of immortal youth,  
> Immortal age beside immortal youth,  
> And all I was, in ashes.
> 
> Tennyson, "Tithonus"  
> ***  
> Let's not talk about how much I struggled with this chapter. But...teeth have been pulled and words have been written down! That's about the best I can say right now.

Cullen doesn't know whether to call the battle that follows a victory or a defeat. The red templars fight like demons (and Cullen would know, having faced more than his share), but when Corypheus's dragon abandons the field, the Inquisition presses its advantage all the way to the temple's sealed gates. No way to know from the outside if the dragon left because Corypheus has what he came for, or if the dragon left because its master was thwarted once again.

Covered in blood and broken shards of red lyrium, Cullen presses his gauntleted hand to the temple doors and looks as far up as his heart is sinking down. There's no way in, not anymore, and whatever happened or is happening on the other side is beyond his ability to change. It's still a long moment before he can bring himself to step away.

There are a hundred tasks to be done, and the living soldiers begin the gruesome and painful task of gathering bodies to identify those they can. The red templars may be scattered and broken, but the cost in lives makes Kirkwall look like a barroom brawl. Someone suggests they simply torch the forest and call that a pyre for the departed, the bodies are that thick on the ground. Cullen thinks the idea may have merit, but he doesn't say so.

Leliana sends ravens to Skyhold, asking for any news. It's a rare bird that can be trained to fly not only to its roost but also back to where it was released, and those are the birds Leliana is always careful not to waste. She sends all of them this time, the message too important to risk on a single bird. Then there's nothing to do but wait, and bury the dead.

At noon a few days later, the first bird returns and brings word that the Inquisitor is safe in Skyhold, after scaring a number of people by tumbling out of Morrigan's eluvian without warning. When Leliana passes him the message, Cullen almost tears the paper as his hands close into fists to hold back all the emotions that try to break free. The message is terse and says nothing about those who went into the temple with the Inquisitor, but it's clearly Dorian's handwriting.

A small contingent heads back to Skyhold, riding as hard as they dare. Cullen doesn't have a chance to talk to Bull privately, but he knows they're both thinking of all the ways a person can be injured without taking away their ability to write.

When they pass through Skyhold's gates at dusk six days later, the Inquisitor is there to greet them. Dorian stands off to one side, tense but whole, and Cullen barely controls the urge to grab him. Bull doesn't bother with such restraint, picking Dorian up around the waist and kissing him soundly. Cullen looks away, envying both of them.

Thank the Maker, the Inquisitor doesn't keep them long, sending them off to their baths and their beds with a laughing, "We have a lot to talk about. _Tomorrow._ "

Cullen had every intention of getting a bath, right up to the moment the Inquisitor waves farewell, and then the only place he wants to be is Bull's room. Fortunately, the Herald's Rest is crowded, and no one notices him climbing the stairs to the top floor. Even Cole is absent from his usual spot.

His knuckles have barely touched the door before it's whisked open, and he's dragged into the room by his sword belt. Dorian closes the door by slamming Cullen against it, kissing him frantically before turning to do the same to Bull, then turning back to Cullen. The kisses are quick and hard, without ever deepening, as if Dorian's afraid whichever of them he's not kissing at that second will have vanished when he looks again.

They undress in a rush, getting in each other's way as much as helping. Cullen's greaves land on Dorian's foot and the mage hardly seems to notice. For his own part, Cullen barely feels it when the hilt of Bull's sword catches the side of his head. It's a momentary distraction, nowhere near as important as proving to himself that Dorian is alive. That they're _all_ alive.

Alive, and also covered in sweat and dirt and the smell of horse, but even Dorian the ever-fastidious doesn't seem to care, if the way he sucks on Cullen's neck and presses himself against Bull's chest are any indication. Caught between the two larger men, Dorian is making soft, needy sounds in the back of his throat, sounds that have Cullen dropping to his knees in the hopes of making them louder. Bull loops his arms under and around Dorian's, pinning him in place as Cullen sucks him, as desperately as Dorian kissed him a moment ago.

Dorian cries out, arching into him, and bitter heat floods Cullen's mouth far sooner than he expected. He's barely swallowed it all before Dorian is pulling him back up, still frantic, still trying to touch him and Bull everywhere at the same time. Bull manages to steer them to the bed in an ungainly shuffle that ends in an even more ungainly tangle of limbs. The bed creaks alarmingly in protest, but holds.

Then concern for the bed's structural stability is no longer anywhere near the front of Cullen's thoughts. He's ended up on his hands and knees, Dorian stretched out across the bed and beneath him, mouth around his cock while Bull fucks him with two slick fingers. When he had the time to find the oil is anyone's guess, but the question ranks only slightly higher than concern for the bed on Cullen's list of things to think about right now. One of Dorian's hands is squeezing his ass, holding him open, and Cullen groans when Dorian's fingers slide briefly down and in, stroking inside him along with Bull's, stretching him wide.

Bull shoves Dorian's hand away and lines up his cock, resting for a second with the head pressing against Cullen but not yet inside. He's gasping for breath--they're all gasping for breath--and then he proceeds to fuck all the air from Cullen's lungs. Every thrust slams Cullen's hips forward, driving his cock deeper into Dorian's mouth. Dorian grabs onto his ass again, spreading him just that little bit farther, giving Bull an extra inch that feels like far more than an inch. With his other hand, Dorian finds one of Cullen's nipples and pinches it roughly between his fingernails.

Cullen's arms give out, sending him face first into the blankets and almost dropping his elbow into Dorian's stomach. Neither of them pays much attention to the near miss. Cullen manages to bring his arms up and under his head to brace his shoulders so he can rock back against Bull, making his already hard thrusts even harder.

He's aware that his lips are moving, but the only mouth he's really thinking about right now is Dorian's, and the way Dorian swallows around the head of his cock just as Bull's hips stutter and stop with Bull's cock deep inside him. The warmth filling him pushes him over the edge, his body shaking between Dorian's mouth and Bull's cock until he shakes completely apart, and two pairs of hands ground him and put him back together.

Bull withdraws slowly, and Cullen hisses, sore but still a little sorry they can't do this all night long. He falls sideways so he doesn't land on Dorian, who immediately takes this as an invitation to curl into Cullen's body. There's just enough bed left for Bull to stretch out on his side, head propped on one hand so his horns don't tear the blankets, his other hand tracing invisible patterns on Dorian's back and shoulders.

They stagger out of bed eventually, and only long enough to help each other wash off, touching constantly as they do, saying nothing of any consequence. Once, Cullen hears Bull whisper "kadan"; he can't tell whether the word is directed at himself or at Dorian, but he doesn't examine it too closely, lest he find something he isn't yet ready to face.

When they fall back into bed, Dorian crawls into the middle for once, and Cullen's just as glad to have him pressed between the two of them. It's stupid, he _knows_ it's stupid, but for tonight, he wants the illusion that Dorian is safe, even though he knows none of them truly are.

###

Illusory it may be, but it's still comforting to be back inside Skyhold's walls, and first thing the next morning, Cullen throws himself into whatever task comes nearest to hand. Even with the army much reduced, there's plenty of work to fill his day, and he doesn't see much of Bull or Dorian for a while.

New recruits continue to flock to Skyhold, which is heartening and terrifying both, and somehow the numbers actually increase as word begins to spread of what happened in the Wilds. Cullen can't decide if that's a sign there's hope for the world, or if everyone has simply lost their minds. He only knows that he's not really in a position to say.

They've been back at Skyhold three weeks before he gets to the bottom of his accumulated messages, even with Mairyn sitting up with him long after everyone but the serious drinkers have crawled into their beds. Late in the evening at the end of those weeks, his hands cramping and his eyes crossing, Cullen lays the last letter on the pile with a triumphant, "There!"

Mairyn heaves a sigh, massaging the heel of her palm with one thumb as she slumps back in her chair. "Finally."

Cullen couldn't agree more. "Sleep in tomorrow," he tells her. "If I see you before lunchtime, I'm going to pretend I don't."

She smiles as she stands, her every movement as pained as Cullen feels. "Yes, sir," she says. "Thank you."

"You work too hard," he says, then blinks when she gapes at him. He can't recall the last time he saw her knocked so off balance. "You do," he insists, "and I don't usually remember to tell you I appreciate it, but I do."

"Ah, yes." She squeezes her eyes closed for a second, and when she opens them, her face is placid once more. "Thank you, sir. I just try to help where I can."

"Well, one morning off is poor repayment for everything you've done for me, but it's something." He waves at the door. "Go on, go to bed. I know that's where I'm headed as soon as I can get out of this chair." Not necessarily to his own bed, but there's no need to say so.

In the doorway, she pauses and looks back. When he tilts his hand, inviting her to speak, she says, "Sir, I hope you know...that is, with all due respect, sir-"

Cullen winces, because nothing good ever follows those words, and she laughs nervously. "I...that came out wrong. I don't mean to get above myself, sir, but if you ever need me--for anything--you know you only need to ask?"

For a horrifying moment, he thinks she means sex, and then he realizes she means nothing of the sort, and that's worse. Is it so obvious he's falling apart that his clerk, who has never put so much as one toe over the boundaries of their professional relationship, feels the need to say something?

Maker's breath. She might as well have called him a failure in front of everyone in Skyhold, no matter how well-intentioned the words.

"I'm fine," he says, perhaps a little more briskly than necessary. "I'll see you tomorrow afternoon."

"Sir, I apologize-"

He cuts her off. "It's nothing, don't worry about it. I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine. I'll see you tomorrow."

She fidgets in the doorway a moment, then sighs, salutes, and leaves.

Cullen puts his head in his hands as soon as the door is shut, digging his fingers into his scalp in hopes of alleviating the headache that's begun to throb behind one temple. How much longer does he have to do this? Weeks? Months?

The thought of staggering through this life for years is almost physically painful.

He'd planned to seek out Bull and Dorian tonight, for the first time since the night they returned to Skyhold, but instead he finds himself pacing restlessly around his office, picking things up and then putting them right back down. Every time his pacing takes him by the door that leads toward the mage's tower-- _his_ tower--he looks away. It calls to him anyway.

The only thing that calls to him more is Dagna's rune, in the drawer of his desk where it's been since they returned from the Wilds. Or perhaps it would be more appropriate to call it Samson's rune, but Cullen's trying hard not to think that name. He's also trying not to think of the man himself, currently locked in a cell below Skyhold waiting for whatever experiments Dagna will try next.

That Samson lives is another failure, a mockery of the sacrifices so many have made. If Cullen had more skill with words, he could have convinced the Inquisitor to sentence the former templar to death. He doesn't deserve life, not even half a life as the subject of Dagna's research, and that he lives when so many more-worthy templars have died is infuriating.

Dagna's rune and the mages' tower pull him back and forth across his office, his fingers brushing against his door and the handle to his desk drawer, without opening either. There's a strange roaring in his ears, like wind or a distant battle.

Outside, someone screams in rage, and Cullen realizes the roaring isn't all in his head. He flings open the door to the courtyard to find Skyhold one drawn sword away from a riot. Soldiers are screaming at each other, mages are bunched together with their staffs at the ready, and half a dozen templars he doesn't know (still wearing their templar armor, Maker preserve him) are backed against the wall almost directly beneath his feet.

" _STOP!_ " he bellows, pulling the word up from the depths of his chest as if he's in the middle of a true battlefield and not this...whatever it is.

And they stop. Not immediately, not all of them, but enough sanity remains to enough of them that the word and his presence pull them back from whatever deadly stupidity was imminent. Those already lost to the moment are restrained by friends, and eventually, every mouth is closed, every eye on him.

"What is going on here?" he asks, pitching his voice to carry without yelling.

If the situation were less dire, he would be amused by the shuffling and muttering his question produces. As it is, he can see at least three wounded soldiers, one templar swaying on his feet, and a mage lying too still on the ground, which drains away any possible humor.

"I asked a question," he says, "and I don't ask questions just to hear my own voice. I'm going to ask again, and I expect someone to answer me. What is going on?"

This time, everyone tries to answer at once. When Cullen snaps up a hand, the sound cuts off as if by magic. "You," he says, pointing to a man near the front of the mob. He was one of the last to stop shouting, and two other soldiers still cling to his arms. "What happened?"

He launches into an invective-filled explanation Cullen can barely follow. Partway through, one of his lieutenants comes barreling through the gate, two sergeants on her heels, the three of them wheezing as if they've run all the way from the camps. It's hard to tell by torchlight, but the lieutenant looks pale enough to faint, and the sergeants don't look much better.

"Are these your soldiers, Lieutenant?" Cullen asks, and he can see the woman swallow hard before jerking herself upright and to attention.

"Yessir!" she barks. Nothing more, though Cullen is sure an explanation is part of what she swallowed just now. Still, she did swallow it, and she makes no excuses as the seconds stretch silently between them. When she does open her mouth, it's only to say, "They're my soldiers, sir. I'm responsible for this."

"Then deal with it," Cullen says. "And come to my office when you're done. Bring _them_ ," he adds, pointing at the templars backed against the wall as he turns away.

"Yessir!" the lieutenant says to his retreating back.

Once in his office, Cullen stays beside the closed door and listens for a while, just to be sure the woman really will be able to maintain control of the crowd. When it becomes clear that the excitement is finished for the evening, he sits at his desk and waits, turning Dagna's rune between his hands. It's a long wait, and it gives him more than enough time to gather his thoughts and his composure so he looks stern and disapproving rather than panicked and angry when his door finally opens.

They're short one templar, he notices immediately, but before he can ask, the lieutenant says, "I sent one of them to the surgeon, sir. I know you said to bring them all, but he didn't look like he'd make it this far."

"Then that's one thing you've managed to do right tonight."

"Yessir." The lieutenant is still pale, but her shoulders are straight and her chin is up, as if preparing to take a physical blow.

"Your sergeants are dismissed," Cullen says. There's no point in further humiliating the woman in front of her subordinates.

"Sir," one of the sergeants begins, only to close his mouth hard when the lieutenant turns on him.

"Dismissed," she says crisply. Without another word, both sergeants salute and make their escape.

"Now then," Cullen says, looking at the templars rather than at his lieutenant. "I don't know you, and unknown templars walking around Skyhold at night make me nervous. They also make my soldiers nervous, as you may have noticed." He didn't understand all of the explanation he got from the soldier, but he understood enough to know what spark lit the tinder.

"Nervous," one of the templars mutters with an incredulous laugh.

It earns her a glare from the templar at the front of the group, and she closes her mouth just as quickly as the sergeant did moments ago. When it's clear she's been cowed, the other templar turns back to Cullen and salutes him, fist to chest. He licks his lips and starts, "Knight-Commander-"

Cullen interrupts him. "Not Knight-Commander. Just Commander. I am no longer a templar."

The templar nods, licks his lips again, and starts over. "Commander. My apologies, we never intended-"

Cullen interrupts him again. "Your intentions are irrelevant at this point. Why are you here, and why did you try to sneak into the stables?"

"It was late," the templar says, his shoulders sagging. "We thought it better to seek you out in the morning, but we've been sleeping rough for weeks now. I only wanted to find us someplace warm to sleep."

"And why were you planning to seek me out?"

"We wish to join the Inquisition," the templar says, frowning a little as if this should be obvious. He licks his lips yet again, and Cullen wonders why they're not cracked and bleeding if he does that all the time. "And we heard you'd stopped taking lyrium."

It's not a shock this time, not the way it was when Leontine said it, but it's still not pleasant. At least his frown isn't out of place here. "I have, but I have no secret to make the withdrawal easier. If you're hoping for a cure, I can only disappoint you."

The templar does, indeed, look disappointed, but he rallies quickly. "Even if you have no cure, you shook off the Chantry's chains anyway. It gives me hope that I can do it, too." Behind him, the other templars are nodding, their eyes too bright.

Hope. Cullen hardly remembers what that feels like. If his throat wasn't closed against his stomach, he might say something he would regret later.

Oblivious, the templar continues, "Lyrium or no lyrium, we can serve the Inquisition in whatever way you need." He licks his lips again, a habit that's quickly getting on Cullen's nerves. "And I am sorry, Commander. I was tired, and I didn't think what it would look like, templars sneaking into Skyhold in the middle of the night."

"What's your rank?" His armor is too battered for Cullen to be sure.

"Sir?"

"Your rank," Cullen says, with significantly less patience.

"None, sir. Or, none beyond templar."

Cullen really looks at him then, seeing beneath the dirt and the exhaustion and, yes, the first tremors of lyrium withdrawal, and drops ten years off his age. It doesn't change anything that happened, but suddenly, Cullen can believe that he truly didn't think his actions through. "When were you knighted?" he asks, less sternly.

"Divine Justinia knighted me herself, just before she left for the Conclave," he says.

Andraste's tits. Younger even than Cullen was at Kinloch Hold.

And why is that so much on his mind these days? He used to go weeks not thinking of it at all, except in those few seconds when he woke from nightmares. _Not me,_ he prays. _It happened to someone else._ Why is he surprised that this prayer, like every other, is meaningless when it matters?

"Sir?" the templar says, and Cullen blinks back to the present and his office. Whatever was on his face, it's widened the templar's eyes and made him look even younger.

Cullen looks over the others, and realizes they're all as young as their leader. Maybe that will help them with the lyrium withdrawal. Surely taking it for less than a year will weaken its hold, compared to a decade of constant use. The surge of envy he feels does nothing to settle his stomach, and he suddenly feels very old and very tired in the face of all this youthful zeal.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "We can discuss the details tomorrow. For tonight, you'll sleep here, in my office, where at least I can be sure you won't start any more fights by accident." He doesn't bother to keep the sting from the words; youth and inexperience are curable, but only if the consequences of their mistakes make enough of an impression. All six of these young idiots need him to make an impression--with a stick if necessary--to save them from something worse later.

"Thank you, sir."

"Thank me by standing outside on the wall for a moment. Try not to draw too much attention to yourselves."

When Cullen is alone with his lieutenant, he looks the woman up and down critically. "Your soldiers came back from the Wilds with us?" There were enough soldiers in the contingent that returned to Skyhold that Cullen can't know all of them, but he's reasonably sure he finally understands all the pieces of what happened tonight.

"Yessir." The lieutenant's chin comes up again, waiting for the blow.

"A little more time in the practice ring should leave them too tired for fighting. And beating the shit out of each other will help with the anger." He's not about to suggest any other ways to burn off anger; it's hard to say which of them would be more embarrassed.

"Yessir."

"How many of your company died in the Wilds?"

The lieutenant flinches and has to swallow hard before she can answer. "More than half, sir. We were near the front."

Cullen sighs and shakes his head. Yes, he's got all the pieces he needs, and if there are details he's not entirely clear on, he doesn't really want to shoulder anyone else's pain. "You're dismissed."

She looks thoroughly confused. "Sir?"

"You're dismissed. Are your ears bothering you, Lieutenant?"

"Nosir! I...is that all, sir?"

"Do you _want_ twenty lashes at dawn?" Cullen asks dryly.

"Nosir!"

"Then you're dismissed."

She hesitates, then snaps off a salute. "Thank you, sir. You won't regret this."

"I hope not." Cullen gives her a pointed look and says once more, firmly, "You're dismissed."

The lieutenant departs and the templars return, looking even more subdued than when they left. It doesn't take long to get them settled on the floor of his office, and if it's not the most comfortable accommodations Skyhold has to offer, it's better than sleeping in the snow.

"I'll be back in the morning," Cullen says, standing at the door that will take him to Bull's room. "Try to stay out of trouble."

He catches a few sidelong glances at the ladder that leads up to his bedroom, and he knows they're wondering why he's headed out instead of up, but he doesn't owe them an explanation. Like the good soldiers they are, they don't ask.


	15. Deepest Consequence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And oftentimes, to win us to our harm,  
> The instruments of darkness tell us truths,  
> Win us with honest trifles, to betray us  
> In deepest consequence.  
>  _Macbeth_ , Act 1, scene 3
> 
> ***  
> Another chapter that might need the "everyone knows it but I'm going to say it anyway" warning: character =/= author. So consider yourself warned!
> 
> If the alternate title to chapter 8 is "In Which Cullen Fucks Up," then the alternate title to this chapter is "In Which Dorian Fucks Up."

Bull and Dorian are playing cards when Cullen lets himself into Bull's room, Dorian wrapped in a blanket like an invalid. Cullen doesn't even have the energy to tease him about being cold, though normally he wouldn't pass up such a perfect opportunity. His gaze falls on the cup at Dorian's elbow, and the two empty bottles by his chair, but if he doesn't have the energy to tease, he certainly doesn't have the energy for that conversation.

"You're awake," Cullen says, for lack of anything less self-evident to say.

"I find I have trouble sleeping through riots," Dorian says, accepting the card Bull offers and slotting it in among the others in his hand. "There's always that lingering fear they've come for the 'Vint magister at last." He puts an extra little sneer on "magister," in case there was any doubt what he thinks of people who don't know the difference between a magister and an Altus mage. Which would be most people outside Tevinter, but Cullen has no more enthusiasm for teasing him about that than about the cold.

"Planning to play cards all night?" Cullen asks, which is the closest he can come to asking for what he needs.

"Well, as much as I love Wicked Grace," Dorian says, downing the contents of his cup before unwinding himself from the blanket, "I could probably be persuaded to do other things."

"You just want to stop 'cause you're winning right now," Bull says with a grin.

"That has nothing to do with anything," Dorian says with a smile that's just a little too sharp. He slides out of his chair and prowls across the room until he's right in Cullen's face, without quite touching him. There's something feral in his smile, something not at all tame and not in the least bit safe, and Cullen suddenly puts together things he knew but had never looked at as a whole: Dorian with the Inquisitor in the temple, with the Inquisitor in the Fade, with the Inquisitor at Redcliffe in Alexius's twisted alternate future. Dorian's never cracked except after the meeting with his father, but Cullen would know how easy it is to fall apart inside without letting anyone else see.

He looks away, unable meet Dorian's eyes.

"Clothes off," Dorian purrs. Or it might be a growl. As he kneels to remove his boots, Cullen thinks that the two sound remarkably alike. Behind him, he hears the door being bolted.

When he straightens to slide out of his trousers, Dorian is already naked, skin bronzed by the candlelight. Bull is still at the table, and he's studying Dorian with an appreciation for more than simple aesthetics.

"Watching or joining?" Dorian asks him, fingers drumming against his thigh as if he can't keep them still.

"Tough choice," Bull says, but even as he says it, he gets up and walks closer. He slaps Dorian's ass on the way by, and Dorian rolls his eyes, looking a little less wild for a second. Then the only thing Cullen can see is Bull's face, looming right in front of him, meeting his eyes as if he's reading Cullen's thoughts off the inside of his skull. Cullen's not sure he wants Bull that far in his head, not tonight, so he imitates a move he's seen Dorian do a hundred times: he grabs Bull's horns, one in each hand, and pulls their mouths together, hard.

He can't follow what Bull does, but it ends with Cullen's arm wrenched up behind his back, Bull behind him. Cullen is up on his toes to relieve the strain in his shoulder, and even that's only enough to stop the position from doing damage, not enough to keep it from hurting. Pain radiates out from his shoulder and elbow and wrist, he can only breathe in short gasps, and he's already half hard.

"Remember who's in charge here," Bull says, though he sounds amused rather than angry. "A little creativity never hurts, but that doesn't mean you get to take over."

Dorian steps around in front of him, and Cullen sways toward him without meaning to. He looks more dangerous than Cullen's ever seen him, not at all the flirt who tries to make him blush over games of chess. _This is what the Inquisitor sees, when they're out together,_ Cullen realizes, and he's glad he doesn't usually leave Skyhold. If he had to fight beside Dorian, he's very sure he wouldn't be able to keep his hands to himself for more than an hour.

Maybe two hours.

On a good day.

"Please," he whispers, because he knows that's allowed.

Dorian smiles with too many teeth. "Your wish is my command." He grabs the hand that isn't pinned between Cullen's shoulder blades, raising it up until Cullen's gripping the back of his own neck. "Don't move," Dorian says, and Cullen shakes his head, then nods, then shakes his head again, confused which is right.

At least Dorian seems to understand that he's agreeing, because his smile loses some of its sharpness, and when he takes hold of Cullen's face, he's not rough. Firm almost to the point of pain, thumbs digging into Cullen's cheeks and fingers into his scalp, but every movement is slow and deliberate.

Dorian kisses him the way he tried to kiss Bull, hard and possessive, tongue thrusting into his mouth without any pretense at asking permission. Caught between the two of them, still up on his toes to keep the pain in his arm on the right side of pleasurable, there's no way Cullen can move or escape. His attempt to kiss Dorian back gets him a sharp jab of lightning in warning, so he closes his eyes and lets Dorian explore his mouth with teeth and tongue. Against his back, Bull's cock grows and hardens.

Moving together as smoothly as if they've rehearsed this, they pull Cullen's arms over his head, Dorian holding both of Cullen's wrists together while Bull ties them. The blindfold next, and Cullen relaxes into the rope, letting it support his weight as Bull wraps the cloth around his eyes.

Fingers pinch the edge of his ear, tugging it out and back. Confused, he lets his head be pulled around until Dorian says, "Hold still." Something hot and soft is pressed deep into his ear, working its way into every crevice until he's deaf on that side. Cullen is surprised by how disorienting it is, almost dizzying, though it's not unpleasant until a what-if rings through him like an alarm bell.

What if he'd been here earlier this evening? If he'd come here as soon as Mairyn left his office, he'd have likely been in exactly this position when the fighting started outside. Tied up, deaf, blind: he would never have known what was going on until it was too late. He would have failed his soldiers again, failed to be there when they needed him, and at the very least, let half a dozen Templars die, not to mention however many of his soldiers they took down with them.

He panics in a way he's never panicked in his entire adult life, fighting against the rope and the restraining hands in earnest, kicking out with his feet and tossing his head from side to side to throw off the fingers that have already gripped his other ear. His fingers scrabble for knots that are well out of reach, and it takes him a dozen pounding heartbeats to remember what he needs to do.

"Katoh!" The word bursts out of his mouth, nearly unintelligible, but he says it again and again until the rope around his wrists has gone slack, and Bull is murmuring in his unblocked ear, "I hear you, kadan, I'm here."

The panic recedes just enough that he can shove the blindfold off against his shoulder and stand blinking and shaking while Bull unwraps the last of the rope from his wrists. He still feels off balance, his hearing strangely muffled, and it isn't until Dorian cups a hand over his ear that he remembers why. Heat flares uncomfortably against his skin, and sound returns as something half-liquid runs from his ear into Dorian's hand.

"Sit," Bull says, pushing him toward one of the chairs, but Cullen ducks out of his grip and backs up a few steps. He's not afraid of Bull, not exactly, only of triggering another rush of panic.

"I can't do this." More words bursting out of his mouth before his brain can control them, but he takes a deep breath and says them again. "I can't do this."

"Do what?" Bull asks carefully. He retreats to the table, all his attention seemingly on coiling the rope as neatly as possible.

"This," Cullen says, and gestures in a sweeping arc: at the room, at Bull and Dorian, at himself. "I can't do this. If I'd been here earlier, when the fighting started, I'd never have gotten to it in time." As the panic recedes, a little more rational thought makes it to the front of his brain, and he thinks guiltily of how long he was in his office, hearing the fight but locked too far inside his own head to be aware of it.

"If you'd been here," Bull says calmly, "I wouldn't have held you back. If you'd been deaf, I would have stopped so you could decide if it was something you needed to deal with."

"What happens next time," Cullen says desperately, his mind already moving past tonight and on to future potential catastrophes, "when there's a real crisis, and they can't find me?"

"What kind of 'real crisis' do you think could happen, that wouldn't wake all of Skyhold?" Dorian asks, almost as calm as Bull. Almost.

"Sabotage. An attempt on the Inquisitor's life. Some dire news that can't be shared with everyone, but still needs my attention." The panic is fading, but there's still enough of it to paint a dozen gruesome pictures.

"Their ability to find you quickly won't change any of those," Dorian points out.

"I'll need to know, to react, to help plan how the Inquisition will react."

"They'll keep looking for you until they find you, if any of those things happen." Dorian's eyes narrow as he watches Cullen's face, and some of the wildness from earlier is still there in the tension in his shoulders. "It's not as if they'll shrug and say, 'Oh well, can't find Cullen, I suppose we'll just have to carry on without him.'"

"They'll never look for me here, and while they're wasting time searching...."

Dorian cuts him off with a sharp gesture, his hand slashing through the air. "Then tell them where to find you."

The thought is enough to make Cullen ill. He would rather the whore he'd nearly beaten tell her tale to all of Thedas than let even one person know what goes on in this room. The Inquisition's commander on his knees, blindfolded and bound and begging to be fucked? There would be no recovering from that. "No." He can barely choke out the word.

"I didn't say provide them with _details_." Dorian's tone is scathing in a way only he can manage. "Tell Leliana. She can keep a secret."

"And hold it over me the rest of my life."

"Then tell Josephine."

"I have to be someone soldiers will follow, and that demands respect," Cullen says stiffly.

"And how does telling Josephine, 'if you need me, check with Bull' undermine that respect?"

"She'll know what it means."

Dorian's smiling, but it's a smile even sharper than the one he wore earlier, all teeth and no joy. "She'll know you're fucking him, yes, but she'll care for all of five minutes after you walk away. If you ask her to keep it to herself, the only one she'll tell will be the Inquisitor, who won't care at all. Neither of them will know more unless you decide to tell them."

"They won't know until one of them walks in unannounced."

"Doors can be barred."

"Because you've always been so careful about that in the past."

Dorian's hands flex at his sides. "Have I ever forgotten when you've been here? Even once?"

"I walked in on you because you forgot!" As soon as the words are out, he regrets them, but his panic is turning to anger and he's not prepared to back down.

"No," Dorian says, and it's clear he's just as angry, "you walked in because Bull asked me to leave that one door unbarred, and I didn't care, even if I didn't know why I wasn't locking it until you walked in."

Cullen opens his mouth, but Dorian's hand cuts through the air again.

"Stop," Dorian says. "Just stop. If this," the wave of his hand mirrors Cullen's earlier gesture, indicating the room, himself, Bull, "is no longer worth the risk, then fine. Say that, and be done, but find something else to fill your time. Don't stand there cutting off your own options until that fucking tower is the only one left, and then pretend that isn't what you're doing!" His voice has gotten quieter rather than louder, but his anger makes each word crack like a whip.

They stare at each other in silence, broken only by their harsh breathing, until Dorian laughs, unamused. "Fuck this. If you want that tower so much, then do it. I don't even care anymore."

The silence that follows is absolute, without even the sound of breathing to disturb it. Dorian is again the one to break it. "That's bullshit," he says, and if possible, he looks even angrier than before. "I do fucking care." He takes a step toward Cullen, finger jabbing his chest. "I enjoy your company, with or without your cock involved, and the thought of you stepping off that tower-"

"Dorian," Bull interrupts, and he steps forward to grab Dorian's arm.

"Fuck you," Dorian growls. This time when he slashes his hand, the air turns solid and throws Bull and Cullen backward against opposite walls. "Fuck you both. I am allowed to care whether my friends live or die, I am allowed to want to enjoy whatever time Corypheus leaves us, and I am allowed to want the people I care about to enjoy it, too!"

Every word squeezes Cullen's lungs, heavier than the air currently holding him in place. Each one reminds him that Dorian is yet another person he can fail. Bull expects nothing, asks nothing except that Cullen abide by the agreement they made on the top of his tower. Dorian's expectations will crush him, all the faster because they're right and reasonable and fair.

"You..." Dorian chokes on whatever he meant to say next, his jaw working. Sparks are jumping from his fingers, and his hair, short as it is, floats in wisps around his head, more sparks dancing between the strands.

Cullen might as well be waking from a dream of Kinloch Hold, fear and anger mixing with lust in a gut-churning mess, leaving him caught between conflicting desires: to run, to strike Dorian, or to go to his knees and beg to be fucked.

"You don't even realize how little sense you're making," Dorian says. His nearly-normal tone is contradicted by the lightning beginning to crawl over his skin.

"What?" Cullen manages.

"Your logic is complete and utter _shit_ ," Dorian says, enunciating carefully. "And you're not half so good at hiding it as you want to be. I know exactly what's going through your head right now."

"Really?" Cullen says, anger beginning to gain the upper hand again. How can Dorian possibly know what he's thinking, when Cullen isn't sure himself?

"Yes," Dorian snaps back. "And do tell me if I get this wrong, but somehow, I doubt I will. Right now, you're thinking three things. First, that if I care about you, it will hurt me if you kill yourself."

Cullen flinches. He can't help it. They've talked around this a dozen times, but to have Dorian toss it out in plain language, stripped bare of euphemisms, sends the lyrium pain spiking through his body.

"Second, that you're in some way a failure, that you've somehow failed _me_ , and that you're hurting me by your failures." His hands are flexing like he wants to grab Cullen and shake him. "And third, that the way to save me that pain is to simply cut yourself off from me. By killing yourself, if necessary."

"Stop saying that!" The words are out before he even knows they're on his tongue.

"What? 'Killing yourself'?" Dorian demands.

"Yes!"

"Why?" Dorian takes a step closer, a single hard step as if he's been pulled forward against his will. "It's what we're talking about. I thought you hated all the coy little circumlocutions of the Game, that you'd rather people spoke plainly. So let's speak plainly. You want to kill yourself. The thing holding you back is Corypheus, because the Chantry poured honor and duty into you right along with the lyrium, and you can't shake any of the three. Fine. I've never been one to torture myself for honor, but if it's keeping you alive, I can hardly object."

Dorian's hand jerks up, and the air shoves Bull against the wall once more. Cullen hadn't even realized he was moving, or that the barriers had slackened for a moment before Dorian reinforced them.

"But you're also looking down the road," Dorian says. "And you know that one of two things will happen. Either Corypheus will win and so nothing else will matter, or the Inquisition will win and your reason for staying alive will be gone. You'll be free to do what you've wanted to do for months."

The lightning is a crown around his head, terrifying and beautiful, and Cullen can feel it against his skin even from several feet away.

"So you perform this strange little shadow play in your head," Dorian goes on, "and pretend it makes sense. 'I'm hurting my friends,' you say to yourself. 'I'm hurting my friends because I'm a failure, and I'm a failure because I want to kill myself. So if I kill myself, then I'm not around to fail them anymore.' And you wonder why I say your logic is _shit_? How is killing yourself not the ultimate failure?"

"That doesn't fucking help!" Cullen shouts, and he hates the way his voice breaks.

To his surprise, the lightning around Dorian slows and falters. "I know," Dorian says, and his eyes drop. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"But the rest of it's fine?" Cullen demands, too angry to let it go.

He actually hears the lighting crackle as it blazes back up, Dorian's eyes narrowing as they meet his again. "Tell me I'm wrong about the rest of it," he says. "Tell me I'm wrong and I will apologize for every. Single. Fucking. Word."

Cullen's throat works, but no sound comes out.

"You can't." Dorian stalks close enough to slap a hand in the center of his chest, the lightning spreading from his fingers in tiny jolts that leave Cullen paralyzed. "You can't, because I'm right. You're building up your lies now, so that when Corypheus is gone, you'll have convinced yourself that you're doing the right thing, protecting us from ourselves. Protecting me, from you. I can't speak for anyone else, but let me assure you, my world is not so fragile that you can destroy it by accident."

Dorian's eyes are black, reflecting the lightning Cullen can feel on every inch of his skin. "My father, the man I loved and trusted and respected above any other, decided his legacy mattered more to him than me. He decided that he'd sooner destroy my mind, abandon every principle he'd ever taught me to value, than let me be as I am. I survived that."

Past Dorian's shoulder, Cullen can see Bull, still pinned against the opposite wall. He's not struggling anymore, but he's watching Dorian with an intensity Cullen's never seen in him outside of a fight.

"My closest friend, my brother in everything but blood, died tainted," Dorian says, so close he's practically breathing the words into Cullen's face. "While he was dying, his father tried to rip the world apart rather than admit his son was dead the moment the darkspawn wounded him, no matter how long it took for his heart to stop beating. Someone else I looked to in all things, who taught me how to live life as a good man and then turned his back on all of it when it mattered." Dorian's hand on Cullen's chest presses down harder. "I survived that, too."

Cullen's muscles jump, lightning flickering through him to punctuate the last word.

"Alexius. Felix. Halward fucking Pavus." Dorian nearly spits his father's name, and he has to pause to draw a deep breath through his nose before he can go on. "I survived them, and every single _fucking day_ I survive the contempt and the fear and the hatred that every single _fucking person_ in the south wants to dump on me. And you think you'll somehow _accidentally_ break me? You're either unspeakably arrogant, or you're looking for an excuse and lying to yourself about it. I swallowed enough lies in Tevinter, I will _not_ do it here."

He shoves himself away from Cullen, the lightning fading. His hair still stands on end, but the sparks are gone. Bull shifts against the wall, no longer held in place by Dorian's barriers, but also no longer trying to stop Dorian saying what he wants to say.

"You don't know the difference between need and want, do you?" Dorian says at last, shoving his hands through his hair and grimacing as the strands cling to his fingers. "You think because you don't _need_ something, you're not allowed to _want_ it, and that because I want something, it means I can't live without it, or that losing it will be the end of me." The hands in his hair close into fists. "I will not be your excuse, the lie you tell to justify killing yourself, so let me make this plain. Just because I care, because I want you to live, doesn't mean I won't go on no matter what you do. Just as the Inquisition will go on, whatever happens to you."

For all that Dorian accuses him of being irrational, Cullen feels there's something not quite right about Dorian's logic, either. He can't put it into words, though, so he answers the only part of Dorian's rant that he can. "An army needs a commander." His voice is weak, as if the lightning is still paralyzing his throat. "The Inquisitor is a symbol, not-"

Dorian drops his hands and spears Cullen with a look, the air around him still strange and half alive. "And you're the only person who can command an army? What about Cassandra? Or Bull. Blackwall, if it comes to it, though Maker knows the bastard would be insufferable ever after. What about your own lieutenants? Are you telling me they're so green they would fall apart if you somehow slipped? That you must be perfect at all times, in all ways, and never take help from anyone, because everything will fall apart if you do?"

Cullen has no answer for that, and Dorian smiles humorlessly. "Exactly," he says. He gives Bull a look over his shoulder, a look Cullen can't see and probably wouldn't be able to interpret if he could. There are layers of history between Bull and Dorian that he's barely touched the surface of, despite the fact he's known both of them as long as they've known each other. The reminder that he's an outsider here is unexpectedly painful, even as he tells himself that an outsider is exactly what he wants to be. He doesn't want to be a central part of anyone's life, with all the accompanying responsibilities.

Dorian is right about that, at least.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Dorian says stiffly, and Cullen looks up to find him dressed and stamping his feet to settle his boots. There's no chance to scrape up a coherent sentence before he's gone, closing the door behind him. He doesn't slam it, but the sound echoes in Cullen's head as if he had.

"Want a drink?" Bull asks after a painfully long silence, and Cullen nods.

They dress and descend the stairs, passing Cole along the way. He's crouched in his usual corner, the brim of his hat hiding most of his face, and he doesn't appear to notice them.

The Herald's Rest isn't too crowded, and they find a place where they can drink in relative peace. Neither of them speaks until Krem invites himself over and gets Bull talking about the newest member of the Chargers while Cullen drinks and listens. He answers direct questions with as few words as possible and is otherwise silent.

He drinks more than he should, and it doesn't drown out Dorian's voice in his head. A few hours before dawn, he leaves Bull and Krem to their drinking and returns to his office, the words still beating their rhythm inside his chest. He's completely forgotten about the templars camped on his floor until he's closed his office door and one of them says, "Commander?"

Cullen nearly stabs the man, he's that startled, but he stops the movement with his sword still half-sheathed. "Why aren't you asleep?" he asks, far too harshly.

"You said to stay out of trouble, sir," the templar says. "We thought one of us should stand guard, in case anyone came in and was surprised to find us here."

It's entirely sensible, and the fact that Cullen wants to hurt the first person he can find is no excuse for taking it out on someone who's actually (for once) trying to make his life less complicated. "A good plan," he says.

"Ummm, thank you? Sir." Young the templar may be, but he knows something is amiss. "Everything all right, sir?"

Cullen wishes people would stop asking him that. One of these days, he's going to tell the truth, and no one will enjoy that. "Fine," he says in a more normal tone. This lie, at least, is one he has plenty of practice telling. "Just tired."

Before he has to face any more uncomfortable questions, Cullen picks his way through the sleeping bodies. At the ladder, he turns back and says, "You can bolt the doors, now I'm in. If there's a problem, someone will knock." The words carry an uncomfortable echo of the ones Dorian said only a few hours ago, but Cullen ignores that and climbs the ladder.

Alone in bed in the dark, it turns out, is perhaps the worst possible place to be when he's trying not to think.

_"If you want that fucking tower so much, then do it."_

Of course he wants it. Nights like this, he feels like he needs it.

_"You don't know the difference between need and want, do you?"_

Part of him thinks it's Dorian who doesn't understand the difference. Staying away from his tower is as much of a struggle as holding his breath until he passes out. There are people who can manage such a feat, but not many, and not Cullen. All his responsibilities press in on him, and the tower is a promise of air. Just as his body aches for breath, everything inside him aches to take a step off the top of that tower. One tiny step, and he can leave it all behind on the cold rocks below Skyhold.

A blood mage once tried to kill Cullen by swelling the flesh of his throat until it closed off his air. He feels now like he did then, choking and angry and helpless.

_"You're the only one who can command an army?"_

Perhaps not, but he's the one in command now, and he's good at it. Not just at the logistics and the tactics, either. He knows how to balance one need against another: to maintain discipline without forgetting that his soldiers are human, to accept change without tossing aside what works simply because something else is shiny and new, to take a lifetime's training as a templar and turn it to good purpose despite what's become of the order.

And the most difficult balancing act of all: he knows how to give mages the freedom the Inquisitor demands for them while reassuring his soldiers they won't wake up with an abomination screaming at them. His soldiers trust him because he was once a templar, even if the templars have been corrupted and turned to Corypheus's ends. Would Bull or Cassandra or Blackwall be able to gain that same trust? And what would go wrong while they worked to earn it?

Dawn is a long time coming, and despite his original intention to let his guests sleep in, he can't stand the sight of his ceiling once the sun is up. He rouses the templars and rounds up one of his lieutenants, a man who has the misfortune to be off duty and in Cullen's line of sight when he sticks his head out of his office to look around. The lieutenant salutes him briskly and takes on the task of getting the templars settled with no apparent sign of annoyance, though Cullen would have been more surprised if he'd done otherwise.

There's almost nothing on his desk, only a report from Leliana with all the details he didn't want to know about what provoked last night's fight. He reads enough to reassure himself that he did have the right of it, then burns the report, mainly because at least this is something he's allowed to destroy.

A long walk around Skyhold's wall calms him, and by late morning, he's feeling almost human again. He turns his steps toward the garden a little early, planning to enjoy the weather while it lasts. It doesn't occur to him, this time, to be apprehensive about seeing Dorian again. When has Dorian ever so much as looked at him sideways, whatever happened the night before? Dorian may huff and rage, but it passes as quickly as it comes.

No one sits at the table under the gazebo, but Cullen isn't concerned, only takes his usual seat and lays out the board in a leisurely fashion. When the board is set, each piece centered precisely on its square, he leans back in his chair and watches the other people in the garden.

It takes him far longer than it should to realize that Dorian isn't coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seemed only appropriate for Cullen to screw up by saying too little, and for Dorian to screw up by saying too much. And for both of them to screw up by disappearing.


	16. All at Once

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To me there's lots more broken  
> Than anyone can really see  
> Why the angels turn their backs on some  
> It's a mystery to me
> 
> All at once I hear your voice  
> And time just slips away  
> Nothing they could say can hold me here
> 
> Take me where I only feel  
> The wind across my face  
> Let me know there's someplace left for me
> 
> Bonnie Raitt, "All At Once"

The sun is past noon when Cullen abandons the chess board to search Skyhold, growing more concerned the longer he looks. It doesn't help that there must be hundreds of places to search inside the castle, from the crumbling edge of the dungeon's floor to the rookery where the birds mutter to each other constantly. He circles back to the garden and the library repeatedly, sure each time that he'll find Dorian toying with the chess pieces, or reading with his feet propped on the window sill, or trading barbs with Mother Giselle.

He doesn't ask himself what he's afraid of, doesn't drag it out into the light to face it, but the longer he looks without success, the tighter the knot in his chest becomes.

Climbing the stairs to the top of the wall after checking the garden a third time, he suddenly realizes there's one place he hasn't looked, the one place he should have looked first. It's become habit to shove away thoughts of his tower whenever they rise to the front of his mind, and that's exactly what he's been doing for the last hour. He might look at it every time he crosses the courtyard, but he's perfected the art of looking without thinking, and the top of the tower isn't visible from anywhere inside Skyhold.

Apprehensive and hopeful, he climbs the last of the stairs two at a time and turns left at the top, steps quickening until he's inside the tower. It's crowded at this time of day, and he collects more than a few looks as he climbs the stairs. He returns all of them, curious or hostile or carefully neutral, with the same calm nod he gives his soldiers when he makes his rounds in the camps.

Unlike his soldiers, most of the mages don't seem to know what to make of that nod. They've spent their lives under guard, with templar eyes on them constantly, but both sides of those exchanges did their best to treat the other side like furniture. No templar patrolling apprentice quarters ever nodded at a senior enchanter as to an equal, and no senior enchanter would have expected it. Kinloch Hold was better than Kirkwall (not that it was difficult to find a Circle less polarized than Kirkwall), but Greagoir and Irving's friendship had still been strained nearly to breaking on a dozen different occasions.

Cullen's hands are on the ladder for the last climb to the top when one of the younger mages clears her throat nervously. "Sir...Commander...did you need something? Only, we were asked to keep people off the top of the tower today."

"I need to look at something," he tells her, now more sure than ever where he'll find Dorian. He begins to climb, not waiting for her answer, confident she won't try to stop him.

As soon as his head clears the stone, he spots Dorian slouched in the far corner between two crenellations, staring out over the valley. He's seated in exactly the place where Cullen has sat on so many nights, in nearly the same pose: one foot on the stones paving the top of the tower, one foot braced against the inside face of the crenellation across from him. His arms are folded tightly across his chest, and the hand Cullen can see is curled in a fist.

There's also a mostly-empty bottle on the floor where Dorian could grab it without needing to move. No way to know what's in it, but Cullen suspects it's something stronger than wine.

The wind is harsher than he remembers, and it cuts through his shirt as he lowers the trapdoor back into place with a hollow thud. Dorian doesn't turn, even though he has to have heard it.

Cullen has no idea what to say or do, except for the cowardly part of him that recommends a hasty retreat. He ignores that suggestion and crosses the tower to crouch beside Dorian, his knees creaking in protest.

"Looking at anything in particular?" Cullen asks quietly, surreptitiously moving the bottle out of Dorian's reach.

"Trying to see the attraction," Dorian says without turning.

"Any luck?"

"Some," Dorian says, and the ground drops out from under Cullen, exactly as if he's stepped off the tower.

As if Dorian's pushed him.

Then he's back on solid ground when Dorian finally turns his head and adds, "But mostly not."

"Ah." It's the best he can do, his lungs still not quite recovered.

"I prefer to go down fighting, not do Corypheus's work for him."

Before Cullen can answer, Dorian closes his eyes and drops his head back hard against the stone, face turned up to the sky. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for, and unfair. As was my behavior last night. I should never have said any of it, not here and not last night." The words are stiff, the cadence of his sentences off. "I'm sorry."

At this point in his life, Cullen has spent enough time around diplomats to recognize how carefully that apology is worded: it's an apology for saying the words, not an admission that the words themselves were wrong. He doesn't doubt Dorian's sincerity, but he understands its limits.

His anger sparks again, and dies without finding tinder. He's too tired to be angry. He's tired of being angry. "The Inquisition needs me," he says without force. It's the simple truth, the thing holding him up and holding him back at the same time.

"I know," Dorian says, the words almost lost under the wind. "But you don't need to do it _all_ by yourself."

"I have Mairyn." This earns him a slow blink of surprise he doesn't understand.

"I...wasn't actually thinking about the paperwork," Dorian says, and there's the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

What else is there for someone to help him with? No one can take the memories from his head or the lyrium addiction from his body. The world, and his life, are what they are, and nothing can change that. He can't, he _won't_ , ask someone else to shoulder his burdens, not when he took them on willingly.

Dorian slants a look at him. "Templars rarely fight alone, as I understand it."

"Few soldiers fight alone," Cullen says. "Where three individuals might fall, three soldiers together might succeed." He understands exactly the point Dorian is trying to make, except... "But there's always one person in charge, making the hard decisions."

"Alone?" Dorian presses.

"When it matters? Yes."

Dorian chews on his lower lip, eyes closing as he frowns in concentration. "I will concede that military hierarchies are not an area I've much studied," he says, fingers uncurling from their fist to tap lightly against his own arm, "but I think you may be conflating two things. The decisions may be yours, but are you truly required to carry them out and bear the consequences alone?"

"Of course not," Cullen sighs. "That's the problem. If I was the only one who had to bear the consequences, it wouldn't be this hard." He ducks his head, fixes his gaze on the last inch of amber liquid in the bottle, and forces out the rest of it. "Why do you think I'm so afraid of failing?"

"You've never failed _me_ ," Dorian says quietly. "I don't think you could."

Cullen flinches, reminded of Redcliffe and Dorian's father. "Please don't." He can't find the words he needs to explain, and even if he could, he's not sure he could say them aloud.

The wind pushes at him, and his knees ache, but he doesn't move.

"As you wish," Dorian says. He sounds so tired Cullen's chest hurts. "Did you track me down for anything in particular?"

"You weren't in the garden," Cullen says, then stops. His unacknowledged fears seem silly now. "You've never missed one of our games."

"Would you believe me if I said I lost track of the time?" Dorian says flippantly, without looking at him.

"Would it be true?" Josephine would be so proud of him, hearing the real meaning hidden in the words.

The pause this time goes on so long Cullen begins to wonder if he forgot to speak aloud, but then Dorian crosses his arms a little tighter, shoulders curling in. "I'm sorry," he says again, and this time it sounds more like "I'm sorry I hurt you" and less like "I'm sorry you decided to get upset." Dorian sighs, head still tilted back against the stone. "I know what it's like to fight yourself."

"Oh?" Cullen asks neutrally. As far as he can tell, Dorian's problem is generally the opposite: too sure of his own rightness.

"I truly did wish to please my father," Dorian says. "It was my highest ambition once. If I could have made myself the man he wanted me to be, there was a time when I would have done whatever was necessary."

"I didn't...I always thought...you never seem to regret who you are."

"Now? I don't." Without lifting his head from the stone, he rolls it to the side so he can smirk faintly at Cullen, eyes slitted against the wind. "After all, if I had been that man, I would never have... _met_ you."

Cullen smiles at the double meaning and finally gets up the nerve to touch Dorian's bare shoulder. The skin is cold, so cold his hand feels like it's burning. "And it would have been tragic, if I hadn't had the chance to... _meet_ you."

"One of the great tragedies of our age," Dorian agrees, before the smile slides off his face. "Just because I have no regrets now for who I am, doesn't mean I was always so sanguine about it. There's nothing like being fifteen to make every emotion feel like the beginning or the ending of the world, and disappointing my father was very nearly the end of my world. I tried to be who he wanted me to be, for a while." He lifts one shoulder in a tiny shrug, leather and metal scraping against stone. "It's not the same as what you're struggling with, but I do understand some of it."

"It's not the same," Cullen says, repeating the words so he can feel them and decide for himself. He rubs his thumb over the point of Dorian's shoulder, the skin pebbled from the cold. "I wanted to be a templar," he says at last. "No one gave you a choice."

"Wanting to be a templar doesn't mean you deserve whatever happens to you in the course of those duties, doesn't mean you're somehow responsible for others' sins." Cullen rocks back and only barely manages to keep his balance. Before he's quite recovered, Dorian says, "And besides, my father certainly seemed sure it was a choice. A juvenile rebellion I refused to abandon when he ceased to tolerate it."

" _Is_ it a choice?" Cullen asks, because it's safer than responding to the rest of what Dorian said.

"Is it?" Dorian turns the question back on him with a single raised eyebrow.

Cullen thinks about that, about giving up...not his friendship with Bull or with Dorian, but the sex that goes with it now. Because that's what Dorian's really asking: could he give up something that fills a need he didn't even know he had, a year ago? No ropes holding him and keeping him safe, no belt leaving marks that burn straight through his body until he begs for release. This isn't about their midnight card games. This is something much simpler, something it should be easy to give up. He's spent his whole life denying himself, after all, and it's not as if sex is _unpleasant_ without ropes and just the right amount of pain.

"It's a kind of choice," Cullen says, and he gives Dorian a half smile. "I could choose to be unhappy."

Dorian smiles back and lays his hand over Cullen's, pressing it against his shoulder. "Exactly."

Cullen's knees are screaming at him and he knows he's rapidly approaching the point where he won't be able to climb down the ladder when he needs to. He's not ready to let this conversation end, though. They could go somewhere more comfortable, which shouldn't be difficult as pretty much anywhere else would qualify, but he knows that by the time they made it as far as the garden or the library or his room, there would be no recovering this fragile intimacy.

"There are more comfortable places for thinking," Cullen says, trying to tease.

"None so likely to be free of other people," Dorian says, and he's frowning again, the shoulder under Cullen's hand tensing. "If I'd had to look at even one suspicious frown, I likely would have done something to prove all their fears true.

Cullen remembers Dorian's off-hand comment last night, said in jest but perhaps too serious at its heart: _"There's always that lingering fear they've come for the 'Vint magister at last."_

"How bad is it?" Cullen asks.

Dorian shrugs. "Better than it was."

"Dorian," Cullen says tiredly. "How bad?"

"No one's spat on me in weeks," Dorian says brightly. "And it's been _days_ since anyone even looked like they wanted to."

"Would it help if I...if others knew that you and I..."

"That we were lovers?" Dorian asks, sparing him more awkward flailing. "Unlikely. It would reassure some, but others would see it as proof that I'm dangerous. If I can seduce the commander, what vile magic is beyond me?" The scorn in his voice can't quite hide the pain and the bitterness.

He looks up and catches sight of Cullen's face. "I'm all right," he says quietly. "The only people in Skyhold who could best me in a fair fight are the ones least likely to try." His mouth curls in a smile that's painful to see. "Blackwall stepped in front of an arrow for me last week, did I tell you that? The world is indeed full of wonders."

"What if it's not a fair fight?" Cullen asks.

Dorian sighs. "During the day, I keep to the library or the garden or the hall, where I can't be caught alone. At night, I lock my door, or I sleep in Bull's room. What else can I do?"

"You were alone up here," Cullen says, and feels a chill that has nothing to do with the wind. Was Dorian hoping someone would find him alone and take the choice out of his hands? Cullen is intimately familiar with that particular self-deception.

But Dorian is shaking his head. "At the top of a tower full of mages? I'm just as safe here as I am in the library." He presses Cullen's hand into his shoulder again. "It would probably be best for both of us if you forget I said anything about it in the first place. There's nothing you can do, and worrying about me won't help either of us."

Cullen tries to think of an argument, and can’t. Words aren't his weapon of choice, and his sword is as useless here as it is against nightmares and lyrium withdrawal. Dorian doesn't need a champion for a duel, and Cullen can't very well follow him around all day, every day, to glare at anyone who looks at him sideways. What else can he offer, if the one thing he's best at is the last thing Dorian needs?

For once, by some grace of an absent god, he knows the answer as soon as he's thought the question.

With a grunt, Cullen lowers himself all the way to the ground, relieving the pressure on his knees. After a ridiculous amount of shuffling and shifting, he finds an acceptable position sitting with his back against the stone supporting Dorian, his hand curled loosely around Dorian's calf. That it gives him an excuse to move the bottle farther away doesn't hurt.

Dorian is laughing at him and his fidgeting, but Cullen doesn't mind. At least he's laughing again.

He stops laughing when Cullen stretches out even farther so he can settle his head against Dorian's hip, almost in his lap. Dorian stares down at him with an unreadable look, before he lets his head drop back against the crenellation and his face is no longer visible. One of his hands rests on Cullen's chest, while the other rubs lazy circles through his hair.

Another need he didn't even know he had, this need to be touched for no reason at all. He touches people with a specific goal in mind, pleasure or punishment, never simply to touch them. The last time anyone touched him just because, he was a child. As cold as it is up here, as much as the stone is numbing his ass and legs, Cullen wishes there was a way to stay like this all day and all night.

That thought reminds him of another. "Have you been up here all night?" he asks.

Dorian's hand stops moving for a second. "No," he says, too casually.

Cullen thinks about sitting up so he can see Dorian's face, but then Dorian resumes petting his hair, and sitting up doesn't seem worthwhile anymore. He tries a different question. "Have you been up here since you left Bull's room?"

Dorian makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be a sigh. "Yes."

More than half a day. "Are you hungry?"

"Not at the moment." The hand on his chest lifts and covers his mouth. "Shhhh. Talking too much is supposed to be my responsibility."

He snorts around Dorian's hand to show his opinion of that, but he doesn't try to say anything when his mouth is once more free. Instead, he closes his eyes and concentrates on all the places their bodies rest together, peeling off one glove and laying his hand over top Dorian's on his chest, so he can feel skin against skin. His mind begins to drift, disconnected thoughts falling together and breaking apart into nothing at all. It's not quite dreaming, but that's all right. If he's not actually dreaming, then he can't dream of Kinloch Hold, or of the demon wearing her face.

A door hinge shrieks close at hand, and he's on his feet in an instant, sword drawn as he scrambles to gather his scattered thoughts. At the top of the ladder, a mage stares up at him with the trapdoor halfway open. It's the same girl who tried to stop him earlier, and she looks terrified. Even as he watches, the trapdoor escapes her grip and crashes all the way open. He can feel the vibration through the soles of his boots, every sense ready for a fight that isn't coming.

She stutters out something Cullen can't understand, and he shakes his head, frowning as he tries to gather his thoughts. Her already pale face pales even more, and he begins to worry that she's going to fall off the ladder.

"It's fine, Ella," Dorian says. "I'm fine."

"I thought you'd come down, and then you didn't," she says, all in a breath, without taking her eyes off Cullen. "And then I couldn't hear anything, and I was worried."

"The commander isn't going to throw me off the tower," Dorian says dryly, and Cullen can hear him walking closer. "At least not today. And if he ever tries, there will certainly be enough noise to alert you and everyone in Skyhold."

He's right beside Cullen now, smiling down at the girl. Ella. She doesn't look reassured, and Cullen realizes his sword is still drawn and pointed in her direction. He sheathes it quickly, embarrassed by his over-reaction.

"See?" Dorian says. "Everything is fine. Though I would recommend against startling any more templars. It tends to be unhealthy."

She doesn't look entirely convinced, but when Dorian lifts the trapdoor, she takes the hint and climbs back down the ladder. Dorian closes it once her head is out of the way, shaking his head and smiling.

The smile fades as he turns away from the trapdoor and takes Cullen's face in both his hands. "How long has it been since you slept?"

"Too long," Cullen says, with rather more honesty than he intended.

"I can help with that," Dorian says.

Cullen laughs. "Up here? My cock would freeze off if I so much as thought seriously about taking it out."

One corner of Dorian's mouth curls in a smile. "For once, that wasn't actually what I meant. If I can make enemies sleep in the middle of a fight, I can certainly make you sleep, lying in your own bed."

Magic, and the kind of magic that crawls into his mind. The memory of Kinloch Hold surges up, and he shoves it back quickly. He says, "No," congratulating himself privately on sounding casual.

Dorian gives him a look, so perhaps he didn't quite manage casual after all. "You're not doing anyone any good like this," Dorian says.

"I think I'm doing my job well enough," Cullen says stiffly, tension burrowing into his muscles once again.

"Cullen." Dorian brings their foreheads together. "Please. Let me help in this one, small way. You're not required to carry everything by yourself."

A few strands of Dorian's hair are caught between them, and they rub against Cullen's skin as he shakes his head without leaning away. "I can't sleep in the middle of the afternoon. My desk is probably already buried under letters." He tries to make a jest out of it, but suspects he's no more successful here than he was at feigning casualness earlier.

Dorian sighs, his breath warm against Cullen's face. "Try to sleep tonight?"

"I'll try." That, at least, he can promise with a clean conscience. It won't work, but he will try.

"Try hard," Dorian says, and Cullen can't promise that, so he kisses him instead.

Dorian returns the kiss, but when they break apart, he gives Cullen another look that says he's painfully transparent. The only way to hide from that look is to be where Dorian isn't, so Cullen disentangles himself and pulls the trapdoor open one more time.

At the bottom of the ladder, he realizes Dorian hasn't followed him. He considers climbing back up to remind him to eat, but he's not ready to face that look again.

The girl--Ella--is standing only a few feet away. He nods at her. "Take him some food, and make sure he eats it." He can't help but bark it like a command to one of his soldiers, and she flinches. "Please," he adds.

The look she gives him is almost as bad as the one he left behind on top of the tower, and he knows what rumors will be all over Skyhold by dusk. Andraste's tits. The last thing he needs is for his soldiers to wonder if his judgment has been affected by a mage, and a Tevinter mage at that. Not that there's much he can do about it now.

"Please?" he says again, and this time she nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And for anyone who wants some more Bull/Dorian in their life, have an [interstitial chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3959557) that contributes nothing to the plot of this story but that I enjoyed writing. You're not missing anything plot-wise if you don't read it, though of course I hope you'll read and enjoy.


	17. Time and the Hour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come what come may,  
> Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.
> 
>  _Macbeth_ , Act I, Scene 3

Cullen's desk isn't quite buried, but the paperwork is well on its way to taking over, and Mairyn has a list of minor crises requiring his opinion or his signature or (most commonly) his nod of approval and attentive look while his lieutenants solve their own problems. When he was a young templar, he'd never have guessed how much of leading was simply agreeing with the solutions people thought of on their own.

The first of the rumors about Dorian catch up with him at supper. He ignores the smirks and the frowns equally, and bites his tongue on an inappropriate response to Sera's, "Din't know you 'ad it in you!" Her words are accompanied by a sharp elbow to his ribs, which at least gives him an excuse for choking on his food as he swallows the reply that jumps to mind. Though she would probably laugh until she was sick if he said, "I've had it in me more than once." Bull, standing a little ways off, looks at Cullen and then quickly away before either of them can start laughing. Across the table, Varric gives him a considering look that makes Cullen squirm inside.

All in all, it's not a relaxing evening, and Cullen escapes as soon as he can. One nice thing about an office full of paperwork: it's a ready excuse to get him out of nearly anything. Also, paperwork doesn't snicker, or cluck its tongue disapprovingly, or look at him as if it knows exactly what he's trying to hide. Sitting down at his desk, he pulls the nearest stack closer and begins to read, never so glad to wade through his officers' reports as he is right then.

He has no idea how much time has passed when the door to his left opens and Dorian slips into the room carrying a basket. It's so ridiculously domestic, so unlike Dorian, that Cullen can't help but smile.

The basket thumps when it hits his desk, and Dorian begins pulling things out of it. Beyond the inevitable bottle of wine, there's enough food for three or four people, and Cullen's paperwork is in retreat before the onslaught by the time the basket is empty. Dorian sets the basket on the floor, crosses his arms over his chest, and raises one eyebrow at Cullen. It's a remarkably expressive eyebrow, Cullen is coming to realize.

"I saw how much you ate at supper," Dorian says briskly. "Food or sleep, you need at least one." His arms tuck themselves more closely against his chest, the only sign that he's not as indifferent as he's trying to appear. "And before you say anything, I'll point out that you're the one who set Ella on me this afternoon."

Cullen is torn. He doesn't want Dorian taking care of him, but at the same time, he wants desperately to go back to that intimate silence on top of his tower. Which was Dorian taking care of him, he knows.

He swallows his pride, and his fear. "I'll eat if you stay."

Dorian's eyes close for just a second, as if the words have caused him physical pain, and Cullen feels again like he's been pushed off his tower. "Never mind," he says, harsher than he means to be. "Thank you for the food. I won't let it go to waste."

"Vishante kaffas," Dorian mutters. He makes a point of looking around the room, and says, "You know, Commander, you might have more visitors if there was a place for them to sit."

"Why would I want visitors?" Cullen says, fighting to keep his tone level.

Dorian ignores him and comes around the desk. He's surprisingly strong, strong enough to haul Cullen's chair back half a foot, even with Cullen in it. The legs scrape across the floor, harsh and grating.

Before he can ask Dorian what he's doing, Cullen finds himself with a lap full of annoyed mage. It's not exactly comfortable for either of them, though at least his sword isn't at his hip this time. Dorian braces himself with one foot against the base of the desk and takes away the papers Cullen is holding, replacing them with an apple. He keeps hold of the papers, ignoring Cullen and perusing the requisition as if he's suddenly taken an intense interest in bowstrings.

After a few abortive attempts to speak, Cullen manages, "Someone could come in."

Dorian gives him an amused look over one shoulder. They're close enough Cullen would only need to lean forward a few inches to kiss him. He wonders if that would distract Dorian from this uncharacteristic fit of mothering. If their mouths are otherwise occupied, Dorian can't talk, and Cullen can't be made to eat.

"Someone could," Cullen repeats, knowing how foolish he sounds.

Not too surprisingly, Dorian calls him on it. "That bird has already flown, Commander, and I'd like to point out that you're the one who opened its cage. Though I suppose you couldn't have known how much Ella loves to gossip."

"I should've known she would," Cullen mutters. "I've never met a mage who didn't."

"Mmmm, yes, because your southern Circle mages are allowed so many other ways to occupy their time." Dorian visibly catches himself. "Your southern templars, too, I imagine."

Cullen smiles unwillingly, knowing Dorian is right. If there was one thing a Circle tower always had more than enough of, it was gossip, from the First Enchanter's quarters to the templar recruits' barracks. "Well, we can't stand around glaring at mages all the time," Cullen says.

"Very hard on the muscles, all that glaring," Dorian agrees. "And there's the wrinkles and the headaches, too." He pats himself lightly on the cheek. "I, of course, never glare. It wouldn't do to mar such a handsome visage."

All Cullen can do is shake his head and smile. Having Dorian on his lap is no longer uncomfortable, or at least, it's now uncomfortable in a more pleasant way. By the way Dorian smirks and deliberately shifts position, he's well aware of how uncomfortable.

Dorian's hand is still resting against his own cheek. Cullen slides his fingers under it, pulling it away so he can press his lips to the skin underneath. This late in the day, Dorian's cheek is rough with the first hint of stubble, catching on Cullen's chapped lips. He follows the line between roughness and smooth skin up to Dorian's ear and the close-cut hair along the side of his head, then back down until he finds Dorian's mouth and can kiss him.

The hand in his clenches tight for a second before Dorian leans away. "I didn't sacrifice my dignity carrying that basket all the way here just to let you ignore it," he says, freeing his hand so he can put it over Cullen's mouth. "So...a valiant effort, Commander, but ultimately fruitless. If you don't pick something to eat, I'll pick for you."

"Fruitless?" Cullen asks against Dorian's palm, holding up the apple, and Dorian covers his face briefly with the supply requisition he still holds in his other hand.

"Keep that up," Dorian says, dropping the papers back on the stack, "and you won't need to eat, because I'll have strangled you."

The silence that follows is painful, and Dorian closes his eyes again, frozen in the midst of smoothing out the papers. Cullen braces himself for what comes next, the apology or entreaty or rant he knows is on the tip of Dorian's tongue.

Instead, Dorian pats the stack of paper and takes the apple from Cullen, drawing his belt knife as he does so. He makes a sticky mess of the top of Cullen's desk, and the surface acquires a few new scratches, but he gets the apple cored and cut into eighths without doing himself or Cullen any damage. Neither of them speaks throughout the process, and Cullen is back to being _un_ pleasantly uncomfortable.

Dorian pops one slice into his own mouth, and holds another out to Cullen with an expectant look. When there's no immediate response, Dorian taps it against Cullen's closed lips and says, "Surely you're not going to make me carry something so heavy for no good effect? These hands were made for art, Commander, not menial labor."

For the first time, Cullen doesn't wince at Dorian's use of his title. The whole situation is too ridiculous, and even with Dorian's ill-considered words still echoing in the space between them, Cullen feels a smile tugging at the unscarred side of his mouth. He bites off half the slice of apple and chews slowly.

It's good: sweet and tart, still crisp, without the mealiness and leathery skin that will come later in the winter. He swallows and, since Dorian is still holding the remainder inches from his face, he takes it, licking Dorian's fingers on the way by.

"None of that," Dorian says, but he's laughing. "I'm not part of the meal." Cullen can't help but notice that he breaks the next piece in half, holding it so that Cullen has no way to take it without either using his own hand or putting Dorian's fingers in his mouth. He wraps his lips around finger, thumb, and apple all together, making himself look Dorian in the eye as he does it. He feels silly, but the look on Dorian's face is worth that brief flutter of embarrassment.

"I might be dessert, though," Dorian allows, and Cullen smiles, bringing one hand up to rest on Dorian's hip.

He stops smiling when Dorian turns and reaches for the wine. It's just out of his reach, and Cullen doesn't loosen his grip to allow him the last few inches.

"What kind of cheese is that?" Cullen asks innocently, as if Dorian isn't half struggling against him.

Dorian gives him a look, and for a second, Cullen thinks they're going to have the fight they so narrowly avoided a moment ago. He can actually see Dorian make a conscious decision to let it go.

"It's Orlesian," Dorian says, and reaches for that instead of the wine.

They make a game of it, Dorian feeding both of them, Cullen sucking on his fingers with each bite. By the time they're both full, Cullen is hard, pleasantly uncomfortable again. Somewhere in all this, Dorian turned around; he's now straddling Cullen and the chair both, his heels locked around the chair's back legs, leaning against the edge of the desk with Cullen's hands under his ass to support some of his weight. Just to keep the edge of the desk from digging into his back, of course. It's only chivalrous.

Then Dorian tilts himself forward until their lips meet, and the kiss doesn't play at chivalrous even for a second. Dorian's mouth is open against his, demanding and hungry in a way that has nothing to do with the food they just ate, and Cullen is only too happy to return it in kind. His hands tighten, pulling Dorian closer until the buckles on his clothes dig painfully, exquisitely, into Cullen's chest.

Dorian takes two fistfuls of his hair, crushing their mouths together as his tongue slides over Cullen's teeth and lips. They're both gasping, pulling away for half seconds only, just enough to suck in air before pressing back together as if the kiss, rather than the air, is what's really keeping them alive. Cullen can feel every stroke of Dorian's tongue like lightning, blazing straight through his body from his mouth to his groin.

His attempts to remove Dorian's clothes are more frustrating than arousing, however, and eventually he twists his head away so he can mutter in Dorian's ear, "I thought I liked this jacket, but I've changed my mind. I hate it. How in Andraste's name do you get out of it?"

Dorian takes advantage of their new position to suck on Cullen's earlobe, his breath hot against the side of Cullen's head. When he bites down hard, Cullen's hips jerk up against his.

At the end of his patience, Cullen shoves back from the desk and sets Dorian down on his feet. "Upstairs," he says, his voice rough, cutting off Dorian's protests.

"Well, technically, it's a ladder, not stairs," Dorian says, but he's headed in the right direction even as he says it.

Cullen hastily blows out the candles and picks up his sword, following Dorian as quickly as he can. Normally, his knees protest this climb, but tonight, he doesn't notice them any more than he notices how awkward it is to climb a ladder while carrying the sword he couldn't take the time to put back at his hip.

Dorian has lit a single candle and is just pulling off his trousers, his jacket and boots already discarded on the floor. As he straightens, the light falls on a red-purple mark high on his chest.

With his free hand, Cullen touches the edges of it, and Dorian jerks. "Bull," Dorian says, and the word is almost a challenge.

Does he think Cullen will _object_? "You talked to him?"

"Yes," Dorian says, and Cullen glances up in time to catch his smirk. "Among other things."

The bruise is very slightly warmer than the skin around it, and Dorian jerks again when Cullen bends to press his mouth to it. Dorian's sigh becomes a gasp as Cullen moves to the other side of his chest and bites down. One hand on Dorian's hip and the one still holding his sword pressed to Dorian's back, Cullen sucks hard on the skin and thinks, _Mine._ Under it is a whisper he doesn't acknowledge: _Ours._

Dorian twists away from him, breathing hard. "Clothes off," he says, holding out his hand for Cullen's sword. "Now."

The note of command adds to the heat already rushing through Cullen, and he fumbles at his own buckles, though they're significantly less complicated than Dorian's. When he begins to fold his shirt with hasty, haphazard movements, Dorian pulls it from his hands and tosses it aside. " _Now_ ," he says again, and Cullen hastens to obey.

Finally, the last frustrating ties give way. It's cold up here, but he doesn't feel it, aware only of Dorian's hands and mouth, and the steady pressure guiding him backward toward the bed. It catches him behind the knees about half a step before he's ready, and he falls gracelessly onto it.

"Aren't I supposed to be the one stumbling?" Dorian asks from where he stands by the edge of the bed. He's looking at Cullen like a man finding himself unexpectedly at a feast: too many delicious options to know where to start. "It's your room, after all."

"I never..." About to confess he's never actually had sex in this room--except the night he returned from Dumat's shrine, and he doesn't think that counts--he closes his mouth on the rest of the words.

Too late. From the look on Dorian's face, he's filled in what Cullen didn't say. Cullen tenses, but Dorian shrugs it off as if it's nothing and says, "Hands over your head."

In his haste, Cullen smacks his knuckles against the headboard, the pain running through him much the way Dorian's kiss did earlier. The magic closing around his wrists and ankles echoes and amplifies the sting, and he's already arching off the bed, pulling hard against the bindings to feel the resistance.

Dorian kneels beside him, lightning glittering at the ends of his fingers as he strokes up Cullen's thighs and across his stomach. Every spark is its own separate pain, the lightning walking up his body like a storm crossing the valley. When Dorian pinches his nipples, driving the lightning deeper under his skin, Cullen cries out.

"Please," he gasps, as soon as his lips work again. "Dorian..."

He gets his eyes open in time to see Dorian swing a leg over so he's once more astride Cullen, this time high on his chest, his knees almost in Cullen's armpits. Dorian's cock curves up against his stomach, one of his hands around the base as he watches Cullen. The tip glistens, and Cullen licks his lips. With his free hand, Dorian puts something round and rough into Cullen's hand: the hilt of Dorian's sheathed belt knife. It's light enough that holding it is no strain, but heavy enough that it will fall if Cullen's grip loosens.

He squeezes it tightly.

One hand on the wall above the headboard, the other still holding himself, Dorian leans forward to guide his cock between Cullen's lips. He's frowning with intense concentration, as if this is a delicate and dangerous spell. Cullen stretches his neck up, the only part of himself he can move, gaining a few extra inches before the strain is too much and he has to drop his head back to the pillow. Dorian's words from last night flash through his mind, for no reason he can identify: need or want? Right now, he's not sure he could say which this is, but the words are a chant in his head.

Need.

Want.

Need.

Want.

He raises his head again, trying to open his throat wide, stretching forward when Dorian leans back, holding still when Dorian thrusts forward. If he could, he would be begging for Dorian to go faster, harder, deeper, but finally there's no more room. Cullen's head is flat against the mattress, and Dorian is still pressing into his mouth, filling him up until he can barely breathe. There's a hand on his head again, holding him still, lingering sparks crawling across his scalp and merging with the pain of hair pulled almost too hard.

Need. Want. Need. Want.

Dorian's hips pick up speed, fucking Cullen's mouth hard and fast. Dorian's lips are parted as he struggles for breath, his hand on the wall curled into a fist, but his eyes stay locked on Cullen's until the very end, until his whole body clenches tight and he thrusts one final time, so deep Cullen barely tastes him, his groan shuddering through both of them.

His head falls forward and his eyes blink slowly open. For a second, he looks down at Cullen, dazed, his forehead resting on the side of his fist against the wall. Then he pulls himself together and slides down Cullen's body, teeth leaving marks on neck and chest and stomach. Every time Dorian's teeth close on another section of skin, Cullen twists against the binding spell to push himself against Dorian's mouth.

Need, want, need, want.

Though Dorian's been only too willing to tease in the past, to draw out the moment until Cullen is shaking and begging, he doesn't tonight. One last bite, on the skin at Cullen's hip, then his mouth is exactly where Cullen wants it, sucking and licking, his teeth dragging just hard enough across sensitive skin. Cullen pulls against the bindings with all his strength, only to find that Dorian laid down new ones in the space of a few seconds. Along with the pressure on his wrists and ankles, bands of air pin his thighs and his chest to the bed. He can rock his hips only a bare inch off the mattress, and he thinks again of the way his armor wraps around him, the weight of metal protecting him. Bound like this, it's safe to feel, to want, to need, because he can't hurt anyone, no matter what.

Dorian lifts his head, and Cullen peers down to watch as he slides two fingers into his mouth. His other hand continues to stroke Cullen's cock until his mouth comes down again, tongue flicking over the tip. As his lips work their way down the shaft, his wet fingers press into Cullen's ass. All at once, with nothing but saliva to ease the way, it's almost too much. Almost.

Need want need want _need_.

The wet-hot-pressure on his cock and the ache in his balls and the burn in his ass crash together, an explosion that starts low in his belly and races outward through his body. Cullen is aware of every part of himself: every muscle, every joint, every inch of skin is raw and alive and screaming into his brain, leaving no room for anything but pure, physical sensation. He strains against the magic holding him, not because he hopes it will give way but because he can't feel like this and not move. Then even that level of self-awareness is gone, and there's nothing he can do except feel.

By the time thought returns, his arms and legs are free and Dorian is sprawled next to him on the bed, one hand on Cullen's stomach, fingers spread wide. Cullen rolls toward him, fitting their bodies together without thinking or checking. There's a moment where Dorian stiffens as if he'll pull away, then he relaxes, tucking his head under Cullen's chin with a sigh. His mumbled, "G'night," is the last thing Cullen hears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter didn't go where it was supposed to go, but it was fun, so oh well. There will be angst next chapter. Oh my yes, there will be angst. How do I know this? Because it was supposed to be in this chapter.


	18. Give Sorrow Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak  
> Whispers the o'erfraught heart and bids it break.
> 
>  _Macbeth_ , Act IV, Scene 3

He dreams of Kinloch Hold, because he always dreams of Kinloch Hold, but tonight there's none of the usual anger or twisted desire, only a terror so intense he can neither move nor speak. To make it worse, he's half awake, granted just enough awareness to make it feel real again, without the distance of a dream, or the relief of waking. It doesn't end, either, and he relives those weeks over and over and over again.

Distantly, he's aware of a voice that doesn't fit the dream, but it goes away after a while, as every other voice went away, and he's left with only the demon for company. The longer the silence lasts, the more the demon whispers, and the more its whispers make sense.

Then the voice is back, and this time when it calls his name, magic runs through him along with the sound. The dream breaks apart and he's lying in his own bed, ten years older and not feeling significantly wiser. Though the dream has ended, he's still disoriented, trying to understand what woke him.

"Cullen?"

Bull. Cullen manages a vaguely acknowledging noise, even as he wonders if this is still a dream. How did Bull know to come? It's the sort of thing the demon might have tormented him with: the promise of comfort was often bait in its traps.

"I need you to say something," Bull says. "Let me know you're here."

Cullen swallows and says "I'm here" in a tight voice, keeping his eyes shut to control the unexpected, mortifying burn of tears. However often he's dreamed of Kinloch Hold, he's never once cried over it. Even trapped in the tower, with the undivided attention of a demon set on breaking him, he never cried. Why now, a decade later, when there are witnesses to his frailty?

"And we're here," Dorian says. The bed creaks as weight settles on either side of it, and Cullen becomes enough aware of himself to realize he's curled on his side in a tight ball, his knees pulled nearly up to his chin, his arms over his head.

It's a test of his willpower, but he manages to straighten into a more natural position, enough that Dorian can curl around him, chest to back, legs tangled together. Bull stays seated on the side of the bed, but he shifts so he's sitting in the curve of Cullen's body, turned slightly so he can rest one hand on Cullen's head.

"I'm so sorry," Dorian whispers in his ear, voice shaking. "I didn't even know that could happen."

Everything feels unreal to Cullen, almost a dream but not quite. "What happened?" he asks, his voice no steadier than Dorian's.

The arm around Cullen gets tighter. "When your nightmare started, I...my magic..." He makes a frustrated noise in his throat. "I lost control of my magic," he says in an angry rush.

It takes Cullen a long moment to understand that the anger is directed inward, at Dorian's own lack of control rather than at Cullen's. "Why now?" he asks. The nightmare comes less often when he sleeps beside one or both of them, but it still comes occasionally. It's hit him often enough that Dorian has learned what Bull already knew: to wake him without touching him, and to wait for him to speak before stepping in reach of Cullen's fists.

When Dorian only shakes his head against the back of Cullen's neck, Bull says, "You're tired." He's twisted his fingers through Cullen's sweaty hair: not stroking, just pulling firmly enough for Cullen to feel it. "You're both tired."

Cullen thinks back over the last few weeks, and chokes off a laugh he knows would hold more pain than amusement. Tired is so mild a word, something to explain the bad behavior of small children, not to describe the weight that pins him down every second of every day.

"I lost control," Dorian says, and Cullen can't decide if he's angry or apologetic. Or maybe tired the way Cullen is tired. "Your fear called to my magic, and I didn't even wake up until it was too late." Angry. Definitely angry. Though that doesn't preclude being tired as well. "When I couldn't wake you, I went to get Bull. I was...afraid to try a dispelling." His arm is now so tight Cullen has to work for each breath. "I'm sorry," he says again. "I didn't want to leave you alone for so long, but I didn't know what would make it worse."

Which would explain why it felt as if he'd relived every second of those weeks in the demon's prison. Usually he only dreams of brief moments, disconnected images rather than a continuous whole.

Bull's hand in his hair tugs gently, pulling him back from the memories he hadn't even realized were creeping up on him, and for some reason, Cullen opens his mouth and lets it all spill out.

"I was at Kinloch Hold when Uldred went mad." Nine words to sum up the defining moment of his life, to sketch the borders of his private hell, to provide a map to all the wounds that don't show but still left scars that twisted him into something his younger self would be horrified to see, much less to be.

Neither Bull nor Dorian says anything, though Dorian's body twitches against his and Cullen can feel his too-fast heartbeat. Bull's hand relaxes its grip and begins to move, combing gently through Cullen's hair. His breathing is deep and even, and Cullen tries to match his own to it. He learned a long time ago that sometimes he can trick his body into being calm simply by acting calm, and Bull's steady breathing is the only calm thing in Cullen's world right now.

"Most of the templars either died or retreated to the lower floors." It's his voice, but he doesn't understand why he's still talking. They both will know the outline of what happened in Fereldan's Circle tower and telling the whole tale serves no purpose except to cut open scars that have healed, even if crookedly.

His mouth continues to move anyway. "They sealed off the upper floors of the tower, to contain Uldred and his abominations. There were a handful of templars who...weren't on the first floor. They barricaded themselves together in one section, but the demons kept whispering." Those nights aren't the ones that haunt his dreams. He wasn't helpless yet, or at least, he hadn't realized he was helpless. Faith and anger still kept him strong and blind, then.

He's lying in his own bed, but he feels like he's slipping on muddy ground inches away from the edge of a cliff, and he doesn't understand why. It's not as if he hasn't told this tale before; he told it to the Inquisitor, and he's spoken of it to a few others over the years. The anger that's protected him for so long is gone, though, worn away to nothing. He remembers the Wastes, and the way sand and wind carved the rock into grotesque shapes until only the sand remained. He knows how the stone feels, even as more words slip past his guard and out of his mouth.

"When the Wardens came looking for Uldred, they found..." _Me._ He shoves that away. "By the time the Wardens came, there was only one templar left." Now his mouth stops. There are no words for the days and weeks when he was alone, or for the weeks and months after he was back with the people who should have understood. Rage is too mild a word, and agony can't encompass the terror, or the shame when he broke under its weight.

"And after Uldred was dead?" Dorian asks, granting Cullen a reprieve from finding a way to explain it to anyone who wasn't there. How can he, when even the people who were there weren't _there_?

"Greagoir." Cullen stops, remembers who he's talking to, and backs up a step. "He was Knight-Commander at Kinloch Hold. He sent me to Kirkwall after...after. He hoped it would help to be somewhere new, somewhere that didn't hold a dozen daily reminders of...of..." His mouth moves, but nothing else will come out.

"Of what happened to you," Dorian says, very quietly, his lips brushing Cullen's skin as he speaks. Bull's hand twitches, fingers tightening against Cullen's scalp.

"What happened to me," Cullen repeats, and his mind recoils instinctively. The cliff is a memory now, only empty air below him, and he's spinning downward with nothing to break his fall. He lived through Kinloch Hold and he lives it again most nights in his dreams, but saying those words aloud makes him physically ill. His stomach claws its way up his throat and he has to swallow hard to force it back. Dimly, he's aware of Bull saying his name over and over, steady and calm, no fear or anger breaking his voice.

Cullen keeps his supper where it belongs and makes a noise that's supposed to be a reply. It comes out more of a whine. He pries his eyes open to see that Bull's moved: he's now kneeling beside the bed, his hand still on Cullen's head, his face so close Cullen can feel his breath. When he notices Cullen's open eyes, he bends forward to press his forehead to Cullen's temple, his horns curving almost to the mattress.

"Cullen," Dorian whispers.

"Dorian." It's hardly recognizable as Cullen's voice, much less as a word. "Dorian." Better. At least it sounds like human speech and not like an animal whimpering. "It didn't happen to me," he says.

"Didn't it?" Dorian asks, and his heart may still be beating too fast against the skin of Cullen's back, but his voice is calm. Cullen is more grateful for that calm than he can say, because if either Bull or Dorian starts to fall apart, Cullen will break, and he doesn't know if he can put himself back together yet again. How many times can he redefine himself and still _be_ himself?

"It didn't happen to me," he says again, pleading this time.

"Ah," Dorian says, and his body trembles for a second.

Even in Cullen's current state, the silence that follows speaks volumes, and he can feel his body trying to curl up tight again, pulling against Dorian's legs and hands holding him in place, sliding out from under Bull's head. He's barely aware who he's fighting against, barely aware that he's fighting actual, physical people. It's not that he mistakes either of them for the demon; it's instinct, this need to fold his body around the pain gnawing in his chest. He can no more resist than he could if he'd taken an armored foot to his naked groin.

 _Not me,_ he chants. _Not me, not me, not me._

A report to the Knight-Commander, some poor bastard, some _other_ poor bastard, not him. Something he read, not something he lived.

_The demon's prison, barely wide enough for him to lie down. As if he would dare to lie down, however much space there is, when he knows exactly what's out there._

A cautionary tale told by one of his instructors, to remind the recruits of what it is they'll face when they become templars. Something he heard, not something he lived.

_Down the hall, a voice. Drass, talking to the family he always wanted, a wife and a daughter and a son, all as perfect as only a demon-dream can be. Cullen shouted himself hoarse two days ago, trying to remind Drass of that, but there's no point. If the demon can close out the tower's stone walls and the stench of too many unburied corpses, it's nothing at all to drown out one lone voice._

And that's what he is now, one lone voice. Drass is his only company, and has been for so long Cullen has lost count of the days. At first, those deluded half-conversations were a small comfort, a reminder that at least one other human is trapped in hell with him, but as the days have dragged by, that voice is now as much a part of his torment as the dreams of _her_. Drass kisses his wife and teaches his son and laughs with his daughter, while their former comrades rot around them.

Cullen stays down on one knee, praying by rote because it's all he has left. It started as a recitation of the Chant, but the Maker hasn't answered ("When has he ever?" whispers the demon) and the prayer changes into a litany for the dead: those he watched fall in the initial assault and those he watched succumb to the demons over the course of days. As he murmurs their names, he pictures their faces and marks where their bodies are now. Their families will want to know, and no one else will be able to say with certainty. Even the bodies that weren't mangled when they fell are beyond recognition now, flesh slumped and slipping from the bones. Remembering their names is one last task he can do for his brothers and sisters, and he's determined not to fail.

It's not as if he has anything else to do. He's given up trying to plan an escape, because the demon has managed to block all of them. Even death is out of reach, though he hasn't had food or water in weeks. The same magic that can heal broken bones can heal the damage done by starvation and dehydration, without granting him so much as a shred of relief from his swollen tongue and cramping stomach. He's gone days without food in the past, and he knows his stomach should have long ago stopped aching, but the demon's magic keeps him perpetually on that sharp edge of hunger and thirst, the peak right before his body would otherwise begin to burn out.

So his eyes move corpse to corpse, distracting himself and honoring the dead, staring into the distance when the name he recalls doesn't belong to one of the bodies he can see. Each name buys him a half-second of forgetfulness, builds another wall between his mind and the demon's temptations. As fast as he can put them up, though, the demon tears those walls down, with Drass's voice digging underneath to leave them weak and ready to crumble. Leaving _him_ weak and ready to crumble.

Drass sounds happy, after all. Is it so wrong to want to be happy?

 _"Want or need?"_ That voice doesn't belong here: not in Kinloch Hold or any southern Circle tower, and certainly not with Uldred's demons. He doesn't know whose voice it is, just that it's not Drass and not the demon pretending to be _her_. Whoever it is, the same voice is calling his name, along with another voice that doesn't belong in Kinloch Hold any more than the first does.

The smell of blood and rot fades, replaced by other, familiar smells: leather and metal, and some unknown spice mixed with the burnt-air smell of lightning. Pressure on his head grounds him, helps him find the line between past and present and crawl back to the right side. Dorian is wrapped around him, arms and legs both, and his cheek is pressed hard against Cullen's back. Bull has both hands on his head now, one around the crown and one cupping his cheek, thumb resting under his eye.

"Cullen," Bull says, his commander's voice that bypasses all conscious thought, and the last of the nightmare retreats.

"I'm sorry," Cullen whispers, horrified now by his own weakness.

There's no sound at all for a while, except the wind snapping the canvas over their heads. Dread settles in Cullen's chest as he waits for whatever they'll do next, not sure what scares him the most. Will they leave? Will Bull say something to reveal the tears drying on Cullen's face, acknowledging his weakness aloud? Will Dorian ask more questions, requiring Cullen to dig back into the cesspit he's been successfully ignoring for ten years?

 _Successfully?_ scoffs a voice in his head. He's too tired to feel anything but a slight lurch in his stomach. Given how much lurching it's already done tonight, once more is meaningless.

But nothing happens. Dorian doesn't ask questions, and Bull doesn't say anything about the tears he's wiping away with slow strokes of his thumb. Rather than leaving, they're both drifting gradually closer. Bull's head comes to rest on Cullen's temple again, framed by his own hands, breath cool against damp skin. Dorian seems to be trying to glue as much of himself as possible to Cullen, holding on so tightly that the muscles in his arm tremble.

"I'm sorry," Cullen whispers again.

"Shhhh," someone says, and he's not sure which of them it is.

He's more tired than ever, and he's not sure he could get out of bed even without Bull and Dorian pinning him down. The only thing fighting against his exhaustion is the painful silence all around him, pricking at his skin like tiny claws.

Dorian murmurs a question in Tevene, and Bull answers the same way. Normally, it would annoy Cullen to be talked over like this, to have them deliberately use a language he doesn't speak, but as they talk, it's actually soothing to listen to their voices without needing to worry about understanding or replying.

He can't imagine sleeping ever again, but somehow he does, their voices in his ear and their bodies around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what's a great combination? An on-edge necromancer and a guy suffering from PTSD-induced nightmares. What could go wrong???
> 
> Also, I have to whine for a second: Bull's horns made the blocking for this chapter a complete pain in the ass. OK, done whining.
> 
> And another interstitial chapter [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4007293). Again, you won't miss anything plot-relevant if you don't read it, but it helps me to write them.


	19. A Lover's Pinch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch,  
> Which hurts, and is desired.  
>  _Antony & Cleopatra,_ Act V, Scene 2
> 
> **********
> 
> I'm taking some liberties with canon in this chapter, but not too bad (I think).

When Cullen opens his eyes the next morning, Mairyn is staring back at him with a slightly worried frown. That's more than a little unusual--this may be the first time she's come up here in all the months she's worked for him--but his curiosity is a distant thing, someone else's emotion. He's aware that he _should_ feel curious or alarmed or even annoyed, but last night has left him scoured bare. He can almost hear the wind-borne sand carving patiently away inside his chest. Even the anger and the fear are gone, leaving him as dead inside as the Wastes.

"What's happened?" he asks as he rolls out of bed, because that's what he would have asked yesterday morning.

"Nothing, sir," she says, taking a hasty step back to clear his way as he goes for his clothes.

His room is really too cold for standing around naked, but he stops anyway and looks at her. "Nothing?" Other words run through his mind, chief among them, "Then what are you doing up here?" but he doesn't say any of them.

"Ah, hmmm, yes. Well." She licks her lips, more nervous than he's ever seen her as she says, "Magister Pavus asked me to sit up here. He said you'd been ill in the night."

Just as he knows he should feel something about her being in his room, he knows he should be amused by the thought of Dorian's reaction at being referred to as a magister. Cullen can almost hear him say "Altus!" through gritted teeth, but that stirs up no more emotion than opening his eyes to Mairyn's frown.

"I'm fine," Cullen tells her, and tolerates the doubtful look she gives him because doing anything else would require him to actually feel something. He can't even feel embarrassed that he's standing naked in his bedroom in front of one of his subordinates. "I'll be down in a moment," he says, and she takes that for the dismissal it is.

His clothes are on top of the chest, as if he hadn't tossed them in a pile last night, and he knows Dorian or Bull must have folded them because it's far too intimate a gesture for Mairyn. Everywhere he looks, he sees signs of their presence, or at least, all the places where they carefully removed those signs. When he reaches his office and finds all his papers spread over his desk, as if he didn't have to stack most of them up to get them out of Dorian's way last night, he almost questions his own memory. Not until he shifts a few stacks and finds the marks Dorian's knife left in the wood of his desk does he set at least some of those doubts to rest.

There are no signs of Bull at all.

From the corner where she's been watching him since he descended the ladder, Mairyn asks, "Is something missing, sir?"

He almost tells her yes, because it's bothering him that they've managed to erase themselves so effectively. The unease he feels, vague though it might be, is the first thing he's really felt since he woke up. As he slides a fingernail along one of the scratches on his desk, he asks, "When did Dorian leave?" She hasn't mentioned Bull even once, and Cullen suspects he left before she arrived.

"Before dawn," she says, and her tone makes it plain that she thinks she's reassuring him.

"Did he say where he was going?"

"No, sir."

His unease grows, almost piercing the grey fog. "Is there anything pressing I need to deal with this morning?" he asks, and when she shakes her head, he says, "I'll be back in a little while."

The cold air reddens his ears and cheeks before he's halfway to Bull's room, the physical discomfort no more immediate than any of his emotions have been, as if the dead space inside him is seeping out into his skin. The metal handle of Bull's door is no colder than his fingers as he eases the door open gently.

Bull is lying on his back on the bed, head turned toward Cullen while Dorian sleeps across his chest. Even in sleep, Dorian is frowning, and there are lines at the corners of Bull's mouth. His eyepatch is missing, the scar plainly visible for one of the few times since Cullen's known him.

Cullen steps inside and shuts the door, but he doesn't move any closer. "Are you all right?" he asks stiffly. "Both of you."

Bull looks at him in silence for a moment. "Well enough. You?"

"All right," Cullen says. And he is, isn't he? The anger and the fear he's wanted to be rid of for years are finally gone, so he must be all right. He feels calm, the way he hasn't in months, maybe years, the same calm he imagines Bull feels all the time.

Except there are those lines around Bull's mouth, and the fainter ones between his brows. On anyone else, Cullen would call it the beginning of a worried frown. He doesn't know what it means on Bull's face, just that his own calm is beginning to crack apart the longer he looks at it.

"I need to get back," Cullen says, and he can't seem to find a normal tone of voice. He might as well be talking to one of the endless parade of nobles Josephine insists on escorting through his office, not a...whatever Bull is to him. Brother-in-arms? Friend? Lover? They've never defined their relationship--Cullen has actively resisted defining it--because any and all of those definitions come with expectations and responsibilities he doesn't want to deal with.

For the first time, he realizes how brutally unfair that is, and he can almost hear his calm breaking apart.

"Until later," he says in that same stiff voice, and he escapes back onto the battlements before he loses control. There are no guards in sight, and Cullen can lean on the wall sucking in deep breaths of cold air, unable to see anything except Bull's worried frown and Dorian's face tight with anxiety even in sleep.

It turns out the hollow place in his chest is still capable of producing some emotion, and the shame that fills him now is as heavy and nauseating as the anger and the fear ever were. He did that, is doing that, to Dorian and to Bull. What kind of man is he that he'd lay this burden on anyone, much less two of the people who matter most to him? He doesn't want them to matter to him, doesn't want to matter to them in his turn, but what he wants has never had much impact on reality.

_Coward,_ the demon whispers in his ear. _If you were as brave as you pretend to be, you would stop torturing them like this._

Corypheus. There's still Corypheus, and he won't leave his soldiers to face that terror with a leader too new to be trusted.

Cullen takes one last deep breath and straightens his shoulders, heading for the stairs. Mairyn will be waiting for him in his office, and he can't face her just yet. The garden should be relatively empty so early in the day, and he can sit there until the memory of Bull's and Dorian's faces isn't quite so sharp.

Except when he reaches the garden, he finds Mother Giselle standing before a small crowd, reciting from the Chant of Light. There's no peace to be found here, but Cullen pauses for a moment to listen to the story of the first Blight, even if it is a little too appropriate in their current circumstances.

_There in the depths of the earth they dwelled,_  
_Spreading their taint as a plague, growing in number_  
_Until they were a multitude._  
_And together they searched ever deeper_  
_Until they found their prize,_  
_Their god, their betrayer._

Cullen's mouth forms the words without conscious thought. These verses are every bit as much a part of him as the prayer he's said before every battle, and they call up so many memories they might as well call up none at all. He learned the words by heart long before he left home, and then the templars wrote them into his blood and his breath and his bones. He could recite most of this chapter of Threnodies without hesitating.

It's been years since he thought about what any of it means, though. Standing in the shadows watching the bowed heads in front of him, the last line burns deeper than it ever has.

_"Their god, their betrayer."_

_"I have seen the throne of the gods, and it was empty."_

The Maker turned away from the world centuries ago, even the Chantry acknowledges that, but where Mother Giselle and her sisters think they can lend their voices to Andraste's and somehow call Him back, Cullen has set that hope aside. Their god has abandoned them, betrayed them just as the Old Gods betrayed Their priests.

Cullen shakes himself and heads back the way he came, closing the door to the hallway gently once he's through. There are things that need doing, and he doesn't have time to wallow in self-pity.

###

With the world unraveling around them, it's easy enough to avoid both Dorian and Bull over the next week, despite their attempts to catch him alone. There are so few places in Skyhold that don't see a constant stream of traffic these days, and Cullen becomes quite adept at spotting Bull's horns or the top of Dorian's staff before either of them can corner him. He knows it must hurt them, but he also knows it will be less painful for them in the long run.

The memory of Dorian raging at him is barely an echo in the hollow place inside him, a hollowness Cullen welcomes now. Without the weight of fear and anger he's carried for so long, he can sleep without dreaming and handle whatever new strangeness comes knocking at Skyhold's gate. That the fear and anger have taken every other emotion with them doesn't bother him. One way or another, he won't have to worry about it much longer.

Corypheus's attack on Haven seems predictable, in hindsight. Listening to Leliana's scout describe the slaughter--it could hardly be called a battle--Cullen has a flash of his old rage, but it's gone before the tale is finished, and he's calm again when they begin to plan. With the army still making its way back from the Arbor Wilds, it doesn't take them long to work out the details of the only approach that has even a hope of success.

They march for Haven before dawn, emptying Skyhold of every man and woman who can walk. There are children in the ranks, boys and girls younger than Cullen was when he became a templar recruit, but he doesn't try to stop them. If Corypheus wins, their age won't protect them, and even the youngest maintain the quick march without complaint. As Cullen watches them, the rage flashes again, and again vanishes almost as soon as he identifies it.

At least he no longer has to worry about avoiding anyone: Bull and Dorian are with the Inquisitor every minute of the trip, as the inner circle makes its own plans within the larger assault for which Cullen is responsible. Bull catches his eye a few times, and once he looks up to find Dorian watching him intently, but for the most part, everyone's attention is fixed firmly on their destination.

When Corypheus falls and the new Breach closes, the only thing Cullen can feel is a detached relief, mixed in with an equally detached disappointment. By instinct, his face mirrors those around him, and he smiles and cheers and says all the right things. The trip back to Skyhold is less of a march and more of a disorganized ramble, but Cullen isn't about to take anyone to task for breaking rank.

"We just saved the world," he explains patiently to one over-eager lieutenant. "I doubt letting them have this moment counts as setting any sort of precedent." He doesn't bother pointing out that most of the soldiers around them picked up a sword for the first time less than three months ago. There's a reason they were left behind when the rest of the army marched on the Arbor Wilds.

While they meander back to Skyhold, Josephine rides ahead to ensure the Inquisitor's return is greeted with the proper ceremony. Cullen wouldn't have thought of it himself, but for once he understands her. Corypheus is gone, and too many people stand ready to exploit the mess he's left behind. Without Fade rifts and demons as a constant reminder, the Inquisition is vulnerable unless it can demonstrate its power before someone thinks to issue a challenge. If anyone could turn a meal into a weapon, or make the straggling return of a troop of children into a thing to inspire awe, it would be Josephine.

So he doesn't begrudge the feasting and the shouting he's subjected to when they reach Skyhold, even as the noise sets up unpleasant vibrations in his chest. He stays to one side of the hall and nurses a drink through far too many iterations of the same conversation, waiting for the Inquisitor to retire so that he can excuse himself. It is possible, he discovers, to become bored with people congratulating him for his part in saving the world. If he could scrape up some actual pleasure or pride in the accomplishment, it might be different, but he can't, any more than he can find the anger that used to sustain him.

Just before Cullen gives up waiting, the Inquisitor vanishes through the door beside the throne. No one else seems to notice, and Cullen has no doubt the celebration will continue unabated until at least dawn, but he can leave at last, his part in the pageantry finished.

Done. He's _done_.

The word drops into the hollow place in his chest, and vanishes. He should feel triumph, or relief, or something more than the same heavy emptiness he's felt for the last week, but no matter how much he repeats the word, there are no echoes. Just dead space that eats everything it touches and leaves more dead space behind.


	20. Before Your Voice is Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You still stood there screaming  
> No one caring about these words you tell  
> My friend, before your voice is gone  
> One man's fun is another's hell  
> These times are sent to try men's souls  
> But something's wrong with all you see  
> You, you'll take it on all yourself  
> Remember, misery loves company
> 
> Misery  
> You insist that the weight of the world  
> Should be on your shoulders  
> Misery  
> There's much more to life than what you see  
> My friend of misery, my friend of misery
> 
> Metallica, "My Friend of Misery"
> 
> *****************
> 
> I've re-written this chapter from scratch three times (if I posted the original draft, no one would recognize it), and about all I can say at this point is that it isn't going to get any better for me picking at it. It kept trying to take weird detours, and not the kind that lead to new and interesting places. More like the kind that lead to dark alleys in sketchy neighborhoods. Ugh.

The door to the mages' tower is in front of him, though Cullen has no memory of how he got here. He doesn't even remember whether he crossed the courtyard or the garden when he left the hall, just that he's here now. Behind and below him, the courtyard is full of people shouting and drinking and dancing, while the garden is dark and silent. It bothers him a little that he can't remember if he walked through noise or silence, but that fades quickly. What difference does it make?

The tower is as dark and silent as the garden, the mages celebrating with the rest of the Inquisition. Cullen can see fireworks down in the camps below Skyhold, and wonders if someone is paying attention, watching out for idiots too drunk to be allowed to cast any sort of spell. The surgeons will have their hands full tomorrow, and it won't just be heads sore from drink that will keep them busy.

Cullen blinks. The camps. He shouldn't be able to see the camps from this section of Skyhold's wall. Except that he's not on the wall, he's at the top of the tower, and again, he has no memory of how he got here.

Does it matter how he got here, any more than it matters how he reached the wall in the first place?

Watching the fireworks, he remembers the celebration when the first Breach was closed, Haven alive with laughter and singing and a giddiness that infected even Cullen. So much hope and relief, right up until Corypheus and his red templars arrived to provide a more permanent kind of peace. No one who died at Haven is suffering now, or will ever suffer again.

Cullen stands in the corner where he sat so often, one foot up on the stone lip between the crenellations, his forearms propped on his thigh. Once again, he remembers the words he recited before every battle as a templar, words he's sure he could recite while asleep or delirious.

_My Maker, know my heart_  
_Take from me a life of sorrow_  
_Lift me from a world of pain_  
_Judge me worthy of Your endless pride._  


He doesn't know why he's thinking of those words now, when all his battles are finished. He doesn't need prayers, not anymore.

_"Need or want?"_ Dorian asks him, and hard on that is the gut-punch image of Dorian standing where he is right now and taking that last step. Right behind _that_ is the memory of Bull's face as he watched Dorian walk away into the Wilds, and then the same look, aimed at Cullen himself.

_"Kadan."_ How many times has Bull murmured that word to one or the other of them? Cullen still doesn't know what it means, has never been brave enough to ask.

_It doesn't matter,_ he tells himself. _None of it matters now._

Except that's not entirely true. It no longer matters what the Inquisitor will think if no one can find Cullen in the morning. He's served the Inquisition faithfully, and he's given everything he has to give. He doesn't owe anything more, even if he had something left inside him besides hollow silence. So it doesn't matter what the Inquisitor will think, what Leliana or Josephine or anyone else will think, whether their stories name him a traitor or a fool or a tragic hero.

It does matter what Bull will think, what Dorian will think. He wants to know what kadan means, wants to apologize to Dorian for his failure after Redcliffe, wants to see both of them smile without the underlying tension that's been there so often of late.

At the same time, he wants desperately to take two steps forward and never worry about any of it again.

_Bull made me a promise._ Maybe he'll understand? Maybe there is an honorable option left to him, if he can last until dawn. That's only a few hours away, and then he can find Bull, demand that he keep his promise.

_No,_ he reminds himself. _Bull made a **bargain** , and you've just broken it._ He's here on top of the tower, in the middle of the night, exactly where Bull told him not to go.

His chest feels like it's slowly collapsing inward, but he puts his foot carefully back on the stones of the tower's roof. The camps are still visible, and the sight makes him ache, so he folds himself down to one knee, to both knees, to crouching, and finally all the way down until he's prostrated himself, a supplicant before a god who might as well be dead.

"Help me," he whispers. The wind snatches the prayer away as soon as the words have passed his lips.

He doesn't know how long he stays there, unable to retreat or advance, wanting both so much it tears him apart. The hollow place inside him is filling up too fast, a hundred emotions he doesn't want but can't close out. He's drowning, dumped overboard in all his armor, the one thing that should keep him safe now the thing that's killing him.

When he begins to move, it's an inch at a time, still on his hands and knees. He doesn't trust himself to stand, doesn't know what might happen if he can see the camps again.

A few yards and several centuries later, the trapdoor opens under his feet. It's not easy to find the ladder without lifting his head, but he does it, feeling around with his toes until he connects with the top rung. It's not any easier to find the next rung, fighting himself for every step, and halfway down, the war in his head reaches stalemate. He won't go up and he can't go down, so he hangs there, forehead pressed to the rung between his clenched fists.

The wooden floor is only a short distance away; if he holds on long enough, his arms will give out, and the fall shouldn't hurt too much. If the mages find him here in the morning, he's suffered worse embarrassments.

Mages.

He's in the mages' tower, and where there are mages, there's lyrium. This isn't the nearly-empty tower he used to stumble through nightly; that tower was poorly equipped, and supplied mainly by whatever the Inquisitor could scavenge. Now it's a true mages' tower, even if it isn't a Circle tower. All the materials anyone could want are right here in this room, and Cullen can almost hear the lyrium singing to him. It won't be a templar's philter, but he can cobble something together.

The ache in his bones flares from the dull ache of the past weeks, a pain he barely notices anymore, to the unbearable agony of having every bone in his body broken one at a time. He can't breathe, and his blood beats against his skin everywhere, his pulse stuttering at wrists and throat and temples. On the ladder, his fists squeeze tighter, now holding him in place against both the temptation to climb up to the roof and the temptation to climb down to the lyrium.

He's sunk so deeply into his own mind that he doesn't realize he has company until hands grab his upper arms and try to pull him off the ladder. He clings to the ladder, more out of instinct than anything, except that someone else is working to pry his fingers loose. Someone who's muttering curses in Tevene, curses with a strange rhythm that teases at Cullen's ear, until he realizes Dorian isn't cursing, he's _praying_.

Underneath that, Cullen can hear Bull muttering, "One fucking second, I looked away for one fucking second, you stood there all fucking night until I looked away for _one fucking second_ ," and those words, too, sound remarkably like a prayer.

Cullen lets go of the ladder abruptly and Bull staggers back, releasing him as they each try to find their balance. Dorian is now the one clinging to the ladder, his knuckles pale under the greenish glow of the wisp he's conjured for light. That light gives skin an unhealthy cast, making both Dorian and Bull look pallid and ill.

"I was climbing down," Cullen blurts out, before either of them can speak. For some reason, it's important that they know. No, not important: essential. "I was climbing down."

Bull's hands clench and release at his sides, such an obvious sign of emotion that Cullen can't help but watch them move. Dorian is shaking, his teeth clenched so hard it's a wonder they haven't cracked.

"I was climbing down," he whispers for a third time, and Bull's hands go still.

"Will you climb up again tomorrow?" Bull asks, and his body may be back under control, but his voice isn't quite.

"No. Yes. I don't know!" Cullen bows his head and clasps his hands to the back of his neck, as if shielding himself from falling rubble, and gasps out, "I don't want to." He can't draw enough air in the silence that follows, his breathing harsh and uneven.

Then Bull's hands curl around his, gently prying them loose. "It's a start," he murmurs.

"I don't want to," Cullen says, a little louder, "but I...I can't live like this. I _can't_."

Dorian makes a small choking noise. Cullen doesn't look at him, doesn't look at either of them, even though Bull is only inches away.

"No," Bull agrees, to Cullen's surprise. "No, you can't live like this."

It sounds like agreement--the words are almost the same--except Bull seems to mean something different than Cullen did.

Dorian draws a breath as if he's about to speak, but Cullen talks over him. "We need to go."

There's a startled pause, then Dorian asks, "Where do you want to go?" As if he thinks Cullen has some specific destination in mind.

"Anywhere but here," Cullen says, and he can't stop himself from looking around the room. Where would they keep the lyrium? Locked away somewhere safe, no doubt, which leaves only a few options.

Frowning in puzzlement, Dorian follows his gaze around the room, and Cullen can see when understanding hits him. Half a second ahead of him, Bull takes Cullen's arm and turns him toward the stairs. Cullen doesn't fight him.

They go down the stairs and around the wall, one step at a time, each footfall reverberating through Cullen's body. As they skirt the edges of the celebrating crowd, Bull and Dorian bracket him like guards, giving him no chance to stop or look around. A few people are up on the wall to see them pass, all well and truly drunk. Cullen thinks one or two of them call greetings to him, but there's so much noise he can't be sure, and all his concentration is on taking another step, and another.

He only looks up once they pass into a room and the sound of celebration is muffled by the closing of a door. It isn't until Mairyn comes sliding down a ladder ahead of him, falling more than climbing, that Cullen realizes they're in his office.

"You found him," Mairyn says to Dorian as her feet hit the floor. The last time he heard her sound so relieved was when the Inquisitor staggered out of the Fade rift at Adamant, shaking and bleeding but whole. Not even at Haven, watching the second Breach close, did she sound so much as if she'd just learned that the Maker was returning.

The fog in Cullen's head is lifting, leaving him ashamed. He should have kept going, walked right off the tower, not come back down to torment everyone more.

Mairyn's face turns red, the color visible even in the flickering candlelight. "Sir," she says stiffly, coming to attention. "We couldn't find you, and I...we were worried. I apologize, sir, it was not my business and I shouldn't have-"

"Stop," Cullen says softly. "Just...stop."

"Sir." She stares at a point over his shoulder. "I can recommend several good candidates as my replacement-"

"Stop," he says again, more firmly. Then the weight bearing down on him doubles as he realizes her words might not be an apology, but an actual desire to be done with him. It's hard to blame her. "Do you want me to replace you?" he asks, struggling to keep any inflection from his voice.

"No, sir," she says quickly.

"Then I'll see you tomorrow." There's a particularly loud burst of noise from outside, and they all flinch. "Or the day after," he amends.

"Yes, sir," she says. He doesn't miss the look she trades with Bull, and suspects Dorian receives a matching one as Mairyn moves toward the door. It's not a look he can read: it might be gratitude or warning or sympathy, or a combination of all three.

The noise from the courtyard is briefly overwhelming as Mairyn leaves, then drops back to a muted roar as she closes the door behind herself. Muted enough that he can hear Dorian drop the bar into place, locking the world outside.

Cullen crosses to his desk and braces his hands on it, letting his head hang down. He's more exhausted than he's ever been, and the shame is nearly overwhelming, made all the more powerful when he can't stop himself from whispering, "Help me." After everything he's already taken, how can he ask for more?

A hand touches the small of his back, so light he can hardly feel it through his coat, and Dorian says, "I want to help, but I don't know how." His voice isn't entirely steady.

"I'm sorry," Cullen says, without looking at him. "I didn't mean to say that. I shouldn't-"

"Bullshit," Dorian says, and his voice may be trembling but it's fierce, too. "Were you not listening? _I want to help._ " His head comes to rest between Cullen's shoulder blades, one arm curling around Cullen's waist. "I just don't know how, I'm sorry."

The anguish in those last words hits Cullen hard, another weight crushing him, and he wants to run away as fast as he can. To do so, he'd have to escape Dorian's grip, which isn't really an option: there's no way to do it without hurting Dorian, and he's done enough damage already. "It's not your fault," he whispers to his desk.

"Isn't it?" Dorian says. "What's the use in having all this power if I can't solve the one problem that matters most?"

"You helped close the Breach," Cullen points out, then jerks when Dorian digs a knuckle into his ribs, very hard.

"Don't be deliberately obtuse," Dorian says.

Bull snorts, very quietly and very close at hand. Cullen jumps and looks up, surprised to find him only inches away, leaning one hip against the desk. Despite the snort of what sounded like laughter, the lines are still there around his mouth and between his brows.

"I'm sorry," Cullen says, before he even knows he's going to say anything. His voice is cracking, all the control he carefully scraped back together gone once more. "I'm sorry."

Dorian has both arms around him now, and his head is digging painfully into Cullen's spine. "If I don't have anything to be sorry for, why do you?"

Cullen remembers his face, drawn and tired as he slept against Bull's chest. That memory flows into an earlier one, the same pain and exhaustion as Dorian talked about his meeting with his father.

All his failures are smothering him. "I'm sorry," he says again. "Your father...Redcliffe...I should have gone with you."

"What? Why?" Dorian asks, and he sounds deeply puzzled. "Why would I want to subject you or Bull or anyone I care about to the poisonous stupidity that is my family?"

For the first time, Cullen really thinks about what it means that Bull stayed behind when the Inquisitor took Dorian to Redcliffe. It does nothing to relieve his guilt. "I should have offered."

Dorian shifts against him, one hand closing into a fist in Cullen's shirt. "It would have been nice," he admits, "but hardly worth thinking about so many months later. I would have said no, and been annoyed if you pushed it, the way _certain people_ did."

That only makes Cullen feel worse. "I'm sorry." He's said it so many times the words are beginning to lose their meaning.

"I survived a long time without someone to hold my hand," Dorian says. There's a trace of anger in the words, though nothing like the rage he poured on Cullen's head the week before. "Seeing my father again was a shock, I admit, but the real test was leaving Tevinter in the first place. It's not nearly as hard to go when I know I'm walking toward home rather than away from it." Cullen opens his mouth, and Dorian adds, "If you say you're sorry again, I'll hurt you in a way you won't enjoy in the least."

"I should have offered," he says, instead of the apology that was on his tongue. "Bull was right to offer."

"To offer, yes," Dorian says. "But to push at it, and at me? Not really." He sighs, and the hand clenched in Cullen's shirt opens, smoothing out the wrinkles with slow care. "As someone keeps reminding me, you can't force help on anyone who doesn't want it. You can't, and you shouldn't try." There's a wry tone to his voice, and his head turns, as if he's looking at Bull.

Cullen turns his own head, not meeting Bull's gaze as he says, "You forced help on me." It's not an accusation, just a statement of fact.

"I did?" Bull says, eyebrow up. "When? I don't remember stopping you if you wanted to leave, or staying when you wanted me gone."

"You pinned me, the first time. Kissed me."

"At first, yes," Bull admits. "But after that? You could have left any time. Since then, when have I ever held you down when you didn't want it?"

Cullen thinks back, frowning in concentration, sure he should be able to think of something and unable to do it. The longer he thinks and the more he catalogues all the things he's taken from Bull without giving anything in return, the worse he feels.

Another apology pushes at the back of Cullen's throat, and he lets his head hang again as he fights to keep quiet. He can't explain any of what he's feeling, and "I'm sorry" is the only thing that comes close.

"Let us help," Dorian says, almost pleading.

The words spill out before he can stop them. "How can I ask anyone to stand between me and that tower?" He tenses, but when neither Dorian nor Bull draws away, he goes on quietly, "What kind of person asks anyone to shoulder that burden?"

"I didn't say you should ask," Dorian says. "I said you should accept what we're offering."

Cullen's head jerks up and he looks at Bull, who holds up his hands in a clear "not me" gesture.

"I have this strange feeling that I've missed something," Dorian says, almost lightly.

"Bull said...something similar, once."

"A wise man," Dorian says, and Cullen knows he's smirking. "But don't tell him I said so, or there'll be no living with him."

Bull smiles, and he lays his hand on the back of Cullen's neck, pulling his head close enough to lay a kiss on his temple, exactly as he did after Leontine sprang her trap without understanding what she'd caught between its teeth. Cullen clenches his fists around the edge of his desk, shuddering as he tries to stay in control.

"I didn't used to fall apart like this," he says to the papers scattered before him. "Why now? I've been carrying it around in my head for ten years. Why have the last few months been so hard?"

"Maybe _because_ you've been carrying it around for ten years?" Dorian asks dryly. "It is possible to get tired, you know." His hands flex but stay where they are, pressed to Cullen's stomach. "Just because I can pick up my staff without thinking twice about it doesn't mean I want to carry it around for a decade without ever putting it down."

"Could make for some problems," Bull says, and Cullen almost smiles until he adds, "And maybe the weight got heavier. It's not just Kinloch Hold, is it? Not anymore."

Kinloch Hold is the only one that haunts his dreams, but he thinks about Kirkwall, and the Conclave. About Haven and Maddox and the Wilds. He doesn't say anything, but Bull nods as if satisfied.

"So it gets heavier, and you get tired, and between the two...." Bull shrugs.

"I fall," Cullen finishes, then corrects himself bitterly: "I fail."

The hand on his neck tugs him sideways and upright, away from the desk so that Bull can slide in front of him. With some shuffling made doubly awkward by Dorian's refusal to let go of him, Cullen ends up with his cheek resting on Bull's chest, Bull's arms around both of them. One of Dorian's hands releases him and comes to rest on Bull's hip, just where bare skin and cloth meet. From the edge of his vision, Cullen watches Dorian's thumb move in slow circles, cloth to skin to cloth and back to skin.

Cullen's hands are trapped in front of him, pinned between his chest and Bull's. It's comforting, though logically it shouldn't be.

"I failed," Cullen says again.

"Everyone fails," Bull says, face turned down into Cullen's hair. "Sooner or later."

"You don't understand." He didn't want to talk about any of this, but now that it's been pulled into the open, he won't back down. "At Kinloch Hold, after the Wardens killed Uldred and brought...brought me back, Greagoir congratulated me on my strength. Later, older templars would come up to me and say how proud they were of me, that I was a credit to the Order."

Dorian stirs but says nothing. Bull's heart beats slow and steady in Cullen' ear.

"It was worse than anything the demon could have done to me. The templars who really were strong? They died." He's shivering, though he can't possibly be cold pressed between the two of them. "I wasn't strong enough to make it out of the tower, and I wasn't strong enough to avoid getting stuck in the demon's prison. And I didn't break like Drass did, but I wouldn't have made it much longer. Resistance was a habit by the time the Wardens came, not anything I really wanted or believed in."

Bull's hand grips the back of his skull, and Dorian is pressed so close that Cullen struggles to breathe. Or maybe it isn't Dorian's weight that's cutting off his air.

He pulls in the deepest breath he can manage, filling his lungs until he wants to cough. "So every time someone told me they were proud to serve beside me? It was just a reminder that I'd broken, even if no one else knew. That I was weak."

"Everyone breaks eventually," Bull says. Before Cullen can argue, Bull says, "I learned that serving the Ben-Hassrath. _Everyone_ can be broken. It's not about holding on forever. It's about holding on long enough."

Between one blink and the next, the words change, becoming more than the platitude Cullen has heard in the past. If anyone would know how easy it is to break someone, it would be the Iron Bull.

Something else that's more comforting than it should be.

"What if you can't hold on long enough?" Cullen asks.

"Then you just survive," Bull says. "And if you get a chance later, you put the pieces back together as best you can, and live with the parts you can't fix."

"That's not easy."

"Didn't say it was." His fingers dig into Cullen's scalp, rubbing firmly. "Easier with help, though."

Cullen huffs out a brief laugh. "I knew we'd come back to that eventually."

"You know," Dorian says, in the overly bright tones of someone imparting a bit of esoteric knowledge he finds fascinating but suspects everyone else present will find tedious, "I read the other day that they've re-thought the categorization on some types of demon."

Wary, Cullen makes an acknowledging noise.

"Despair demons in particular. They were once considered a subset of sloth demons, but after considerable study, the greatest minds of our age now consider them their own class. Their antithesis would be spirits of hope, not spirits of bravery or courage." Dorian tilts his head up so he can dig his chin into Cullen's back, as if to make sure Cullen's listening. "I found the treatise quite fascinating, though I do pity the poor apprentice tasked with note-taking for it."

This time, Cullen's laugh isn't brief. It rolls through him in waves he can't stop, his whole body shaking as he laughs and laughs and laughs. Tears begin to run down his cheeks, and he ignores them, pretends they're a side effect of the laughter rather than anything deeper.

But when the laughter finally tapers off, the tears show no sign of passing. Even after his breathing steadies, he can't stop crying any more than he could stop laughing a few minutes ago. Impossible to know if Dorian can tell, since Cullen's shoulders aren't shaking, and Bull says nothing despite the wet mess Cullen is leaving on his chest.

The steady stream of tears continues, and eventually Cullen gives up waiting for anything to change. He's exhausted, as worn out as he ever was standing on top of his tower, every bit of energy drained from blood and breath and bone. Without Bull and Dorian to hold him up, his legs wouldn't be able to keep him standing.

Eyes closed, he shifts enough to wipe his face on the furry shoulder of his coat, like a child. "I always wanted to be a templar," he says, though he's said it to Bull in the past and it can't be a surprise to Dorian. "When I was younger, before I became a recruit and learned exactly what it meant, I was going to be Knight-Commander by the time I was thirty. That was my sole ambition, beyond becoming a templar in the first place." He finds a dry place on Bull's chest and rests his forehead against it, even as the tears continue to fall. "And once I was a recruit, I just aimed at something that seemed so much more reasonable: Knight-Commander at _forty_."

Cullen snorts at himself, both then and now. "I'm glad Alexius's time travel spells failed to go farther back than the Breach. I hate to think there might be a possibility I could run into my younger self one day. It would add a whole new meaning to 'disappointed in myself' wouldn't it?"

He thinks he's done a good job making light of it until Dorian says, "Perhaps measuring your success by the things you wanted when you were fourteen isn't the best plan."

Cullen's breath hitches, and Dorian somehow finds room to press closer. "Now it's my turn to apologize," Dorian says, and he does sound guilty.

"No," Cullen says. "No, you're right." He pushes against the two of them just enough to move his hand down to cover Dorian's. "You're right."

"Of course I'm right," Dorian says, his fingers twining with Cullen's. "I'm always right."

Bull laughs quietly. Or quietly for him, which is still more than loud enough to leave Cullen's ears ringing. The yawn cracking his jaw probably doesn't help.

"You need to sleep, kadan," Bull says, another echo from that day in the library when Cullen walked away. He still doesn't know what that word means, but it's impossible to pretend it's aimed at Dorian this time.

"Sleep," he murmurs, and just saying it makes him want to yawn again.

"You need it," Bull repeats.

"I know." It feels like an admission of weakness, but Bull is right. Pushing away a little more, Cullen presses his fingers against his eyelids, as if the tears are blood seeping from a wound and he can stop them with the proper application of pressure.

Neither Bull nor Dorian comments on it as they release him, and Cullen climbs the ladder without help. At the top, he eyes his bed with disfavor as he strips off his clothes, a thousand memories of sleepless nights conspiring to wake him up again and make this night just as sleepless.

As he takes a resigned step toward the bed, Dorian catches his arm and says softly, "Let me help."

It's almost as hard as climbing down from his tower, but Cullen dips his chin in the barest nod. Once in bed, he doesn't fight it when Dorian lays a hand on his head and whispers, "Sleep."


	21. All in All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours,  
> Faith and unfaith can ne’er be equal powers;  
> Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.
> 
> It is the little rift within the lute,  
> That by and by will make the music mute,  
> And ever widening slowly silence all.
> 
> The little rift within the lover’s lute  
> Or little pitted speck in garnered fruit,  
> That rotting inward, slowly molders all.
> 
> It is not worth the keeping: let it go:  
> But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no.  
> And trust me not at all or all in all.
> 
> Alfred Lord Tennyson, "All in All"
> 
> ************
> 
> Another chapter I'm in danger of editing into pap. I took a big chunk out of the middle of this one (must not introduce new plots in the second-to-last chapter), so I hope I caught all the little threads to the part I cut.

The hollow place in Cullen's chest is still there when he wakes, but it feels more like exhaustion than actual emptiness. He lies in bed a long time, watching the sunlight pouring in through the gaps in his ceiling, light and shadows moving as the canvas flaps in the wind. There are worse ways to spend a morning, but eventually, hunger gets the better of him and he sits up.

It's only a very small surprise to find Mairyn slumped against the far wall, asleep with her head lolling at an angle that promises pain later. Cullen's barely sat up before her eyes snap open and to him. She winces as she straightens, her hand going to the side of her neck.

"Sir," she greets him, and her tone somehow manages to be respectfully defiant.

"Good morning," he says. He discovers that the difference between exhaustion and emptiness is that exhaustion breaks apart for humor more easily. "How long have you been here?"

"A little while, sir," she says evasively. Then she ruins her own attempted dodge by looking him straight in the eye and saying, "Sir, I want you to know that whatever happens, I hold your secrets as close as I hold the Inquisition's."

"Is something happening?" he asks, amusement growing.

"No, sir. I just...wanted you to know, I wouldn't tell anyone about...anything you didn't want known."

About Bull and Dorian, she means, and it's his turn to wince, realizing why neither of them is here in the bright light of day, when sneaking out of his office would be anything but sneaky. Maker's breath, he's made a mess of his life, hasn't he? And he can't even blame this part on Uldred or Meredith.

Mairyn misinterprets his wince and hastens to say, "They left before dawn, sir. Anyone who saw them wouldn't have been sober enough to know their own mother."

He waves this off and swings his feet to the floor, careful to keep the blankets over his lap. "I'll be down in a moment," he says, and she makes her way to the ladder, moving about as stiffly as he would expect after sleeping on his floor.

Alone again, Cullen looks back at his ceiling--or more accurately, at his lack of ceiling--and judges the time to be about noon. Not that he's used to seeing noon sunlight up here, but he can't regret it, not when he feels as if he could roll over and go back to sleep for another day. His bladder and his stomach object loudly enough that he sighs and gets up, surprised at how shaky his legs feel. At least his clothes are easy to find, folded neatly on top of the chest. His coat appears to have vanished, though he distinctly remembers draping it over the foot of the bed last night.

Down in his office, he finds Mairyn deep in conversation with one of Josephine's runners. After a moment, Cullen realizes with some amusement that the topic of their so-serious discussion is a shipment of lace, recently arrived in Skyhold. Why anyone thought a fortress needs such a thing is a mystery, but listening to Mairyn and Josephine's runner, Cullen is forced to acknowledge that the unknown merchant may know more than Cullen about such things. If what he overhears is any indication, the lace will all be sold before nightfall.

The climb down the ladder has left him unexpectedly worn out. Unwilling to admit it, Cullen sits at his desk and pretends to go through his papers while he waits for the trembling to pass. There's just as much paper as there ever was, the rest of the world having apparently not yet received the message that Corypheus is dead. He supposes he can't complain, since it's only been a matter of days.

Listening to Mairyn and the runner discuss projects for which they might need lace, Cullen is oddly soothed. Mairyn is a soldier, from her short-cropped hair to her very-practical boots, and her dedication to the Inquisition is beyond question. That she feels safe enough to discuss something so impractical as lace and dresses gives Cullen a faint echo of the pride he should have felt before, standing in the hall while people congratulated the empty husk he'd become.

The runner leaves soon enough, and Mairyn bends all her considerable attention to the reports piled on Cullen's desk. There's more than enough to keep both of them busy, and they speak rarely, past the point where they need words to communicate.

Another runner brings them lunch, which Mairyn makes him eat by staring at him until he puts something into his mouth. Her expression is perfectly respectful the entire time, and perfectly uncompromising, and when he tries to return to his paperwork with his meal half finished, she does it again. Cullen laughs weakly the second time, and sets aside his papers to concentrate on eating.

He's too aware of all the responsibilities piled on his desk to actually taste any of what passes his lips, but he eats until she's satisfied before picking up his pen once more. It's not even dinner time before the exhaustion sends him back to bed, and he sleeps fitfully until he feels Dorian's hand on his forehead, and his voice once more whispering, "Sleep."

Most of the following week passes the same way: he eats, he sleeps, he does paperwork, and on no particularly consistent schedule. On one day he might be asleep at midnight and answering his correspondence at noon, and the next day do exactly the opposite. The only constant is that he's never alone, not even when he sleeps, and he soon learns the pattern of his "guards." If the sun is up, he wakes to Mairyn; if it's after dark, Bull or Dorian. At some point his room acquires a chair, and that they manage to haul it up without waking him tells him exactly how hard he's sleeping. His coat also reappears, cleaned and showing no sign that it was ever used as a handkerchief.

When he's awake, he works through the papers that continue to gather on his desk, and there are always plenty of those. While he knew it wouldn't all somehow magically vanish with Corypheus, he didn't expect to have _more_. But more is what he has, so much more he's considering bringing on another clerk. He could spend his entire day signing his name and still not get through everything. Fortunately, Mairyn does a passable imitation of his signature, and he trusts her to know what he needs to see and what can be better handled by someone else.

He stays in his office or his room for the most part, allowing his "guards" to bring him food rather than visiting the hall. More templars have arrived in Skyhold, and now wherever he goes, there's always at least one watching him. So long as he stays in his office, he doesn't have to face them, or the things they want from him. He has no strength to spare or wisdom to impart, no matter how desperate they look.

On the eighth day, he wakes in the dark to find the Iron Bull keeping him company. Without opening his eyes, Cullen recognizes the sound of his breathing, the way the leather of his harness creaks. He thinks he can even smell him, leather and metal and clean sweat, but that might just be his imagination.

"Sleep all right?" Bull asks.

"Too much." Cullen opens his eyes without sitting up. There's only a single candle lit, leaving Bull mostly in shadows. "My body seems to be trying to make up for every single lost hour over the last year."

"Well, eat before you get back to that, so Dorian doesn't fuss at me." Something lands beside him on the bed, and Cullen feels around until he comes up with an apple.

Remembering Dorian feeding an apple to him, one piece at a time, makes him smile, so long as he's careful not to remember too much about the rest of that night.

"So tell me about the apples," Bull says as Cullen struggles to a sitting position. "Because Dorian had that same look on his face."

Cullen flushes and takes a big bite while he tries to think of an answer he can give without stuttering. Not that it's a hardship to eat: this apple, too, tastes as if it was on the tree yesterday. Either Skyhold has been especially lucky in its provisioning, or someone is picking through a lot of apples to find the good ones for him. Perhaps two someones.

He's finished half of it before he says, "Dorian brought me an apple, once. And, ummm, fed it to me."

"And had a good time doing it?" Cullen flushes a deeper shade of red, and Bull says with some amusement, "I'll take that as a yes."

"Yes," Cullen mutters indistinctly around another mouthful.

There's more food than just the apple, and Cullen eats enough to make Bull happy. He's tired again, but not sleepy, so he slides a little ways down into the bed and says to the canvas over head, "I've been thinking about what you said. About failure."

"Oh?" Bull says, shifting in his chair so he can prop his feet on the end of the mattress.

"I feel like...like I'm at war with myself. Like every day is a fight against this weight that I can't ever get rid of."

"I guess that's one way to look at it."

Cullen takes a deep breath and says the part that scares him when he wakes up in the middle of the night. "It's a fight I can never win."

"Seems to me like you win it every time you get through to morning," Bull says.

Frustrated, Cullen tries again. "If I win a fight every day, then I'm still at war, a war I can't ever win. And I only have to lose one fight."

"Sounds a lot like being a mercenary," Bull says, serious but unconcerned. "Or a templar, I'm guessing, unless you killed every mage in the world."

There was a time in his life where that had seemed a reasonable solution. That, or preemptively making every one of them Tranquil. Perhaps the greatest gift Meredith gave him was showing him the danger of treating all mages as the enemy, her madness a glimpse of where he might end up if he wasn't careful.

When Cullen doesn't say anything, Bull asks, "So what's the difference between this fight and being a templar?"

Cullen shrugs. He has no answer, but his gut remains unconvinced. "It just...is," he says. "I can't explain it, I just know it here." He touches his fingers to the center of his chest.

"That's not knowing, that's feeling," Bull says. "And some feelings are habits."

"So now you're going to tell me what I should feel?" Cullen asks, eyebrows rising.

"No, I'm telling you that just because you feel it doesn't mean you shouldn't think about it." Before Cullen can answer, Bull drops his feet from the side of the bed and reaches for something on the floor. "But enough about that. You tired?" He holds up a deck of cards, high enough that Cullen can see them even from his supine position.

Wicked Grace with two people isn't the most interesting game in the world, but they play a few hands until Dorian arrives, popping up through the hole in the floor like he's under the influence of his own haste spell.

"I want you to know," he says, then pauses to kiss Cullen. "I want you to know that I showed great restraint and did _not_ do any permanent damage to the templar who keeps lingering outside your door," another pause, this time to kiss Bull, "despite the fact that I would have been here quite a while ago if he'd moved on like a reasonable person."

Cullen groans. "When did that start?"

"Ah ha!" Dorian crows, sprawling on the bed so he can look at Cullen's cards. "So I could have vented my wrath on him and not suffered yours in turn?"

"You and Mairyn can do whatever you like to him," Cullen says, rubbing his eyes. "Andraste's tits, why can't they leave me alone?"

All three of them know the answer to that question, and Bull and Dorian wisely refrain from voicing it aloud.

"Well," Dorian says, giving Cullen's cards another glance, "since you have possibly the most atrocious hand I've seen in a long time, I think you should start over and deal me in."

Cullen's hand actually isn't bad, but he's not about to pass up the opportunity to change the subject. He tosses his cards onto the pile and gestures at them in invitation. Dorian sits up and crosses his legs as Bull shuffles and re-deals, and the conversation does indeed move on to other topics.

Bull tells a story Cullen hasn't heard before, one that ends with the Inquisitor slipping off a rock in the Forbidden Oasis and landing on the head of the giant they were all trying to sneak past. When the story is nearly done, Cullen realizes he does recognize it after all, from the significantly less detailed version in the Inquisitor's report that somehow failed to mention the slipping and falling that Bull spends so much time describing in loving detail.

As soon as that story is finished, Dorian immediately has to try to top it with one of his own. It's a story Cullen _has_ heard before, but Dorian's gestures, not to mention his imitation of the fops at the Orlesian court, are much more entertaining than Cassandra's terse summary.

They turn it into a competition, Bull and Dorian digging for the most ridiculous stories they can think of while Cullen laughs and loses most of his coin, until Dorian smirks up at Bull with a careful deliberation Cullen's seen too many times to mistake. Blankets, cards, and coins are shoved aside, and then their hands and mouths are everywhere. It's not quite as frantic as it was after their return from the Wilds, but the same undercurrent is there, that need for reassurance that they're all still alive.

Cullen winds up on his back, Bull fucking his mouth while Dorian sucks his cock. There's no need for rope or magic, not with Dorian's weight pinning his legs and Bull's thighs pressing into his chest. One of Bull's hands wraps around both of his wrists, holding them to the mattress, while his other hand twists in Cullen's hair, pulling hard enough to sting. Cullen digs his heels into the bed, arching up into Dorian's mouth as much as he can while he fights for breath around and between Bull's thrusts.

When Bull is finished and Dorian's sucked Cullen until lights flash in front of his eyes, leaving him dazed and shaking, Bull lets Cullen up and tugs Dorian into his lap to stroke him with one slick fist, kissing him hard. Dorian groans into the kiss, his hands gripping Bull's horns, and Cullen leans against Bull's back so he can run his tongue along the muscle leading from Bull's neck to his shoulder. He rests his hands on Dorian's thighs, feeling them tense as Dorian's head falls back, then tense even more as Bull bites his collarbone and he falls apart, whispering in broken Tevene.

Later, Cullen lies awake and listens to them breathe. Bull's chest rises and falls under his cheek, and Dorian mutters occasionally into his hair, nonsense words from whatever dream currently holds him. At one point, that muttering turns anxious, and he begins to shift restlessly. As Cullen reaches back to touch his shoulder, Bull's breathing changes and his hand stretches over Cullen to pet Dorian's hair until he quiets. On its return, that hand touches Cullen's face lightly, lingering on the curve of his cheek before dropping back to the bed.

Cullen turns his face into Bull's shoulder and tries to sleep. He manages a few fitful bursts, kept awake not by nightmares but by a slow unwinding of memory, from Bull pinning him down on the mages' tower, all the way to Dorian's terrified face as he clung to the ladder and stared at Cullen, and on to the empty bed he's woken to every morning for the last week. In some ways, he feels like he's traveled back in time--before the Wilds, before Maddox, before Redcliffe--to the easy friendship and easier sex of the first weeks of their relationship. It's where he thought he wanted to be, until he had it back and realized how much it's still missing.

He wants this, but not _just_ this.

The thoughts crowding his head mean he's already half awake when Dorian slips from the bed and begins to dress. Cullen wants to ask him to stay, but he doesn't think fast enough and Dorian's goodbye kiss makes him lightheaded. Watching Dorian kiss Bull, using his horns to keep his head still, doesn't help him think any more clearly, and by the time he's assembled words into a coherent sentence, Dorian is already gone.

Cullen stares down the ladder after him, frustrated by his own inability to communicate. Is "I want you to stay" really so difficult?

"All right?" Bull asks, from his seat on the edge of the bed. On the crate beside him, the candle flickers in the drafts from the holes in the roof.

If Cullen can't say the words to Dorian, talking about them with Bull is ten times harder. Unsure how to start, Cullen instead asks a question he's been thinking about, off and on, for the last few weeks. "Dorian grabs your horns," he says, forcing himself to face Bull, "and you don't stop him. But you stopped me."

"Does it bother you?" Bull asks.

"Not...exactly." Cullen rubs the back of his neck and gropes for the right words. "It bothers me that I don't understand why."

"You and Dorian want different things," Bull says, watching him closely. "He likes to play at letting someone control him, at giving up the power, but you want the reality. He wants to stay in control, at least a little bit, and you want to give it all up."

Cullen has a moment of clarity, brief but dazzling. "What do _you_ want?" he asks, his mind finally, firmly, in the present. He's not talking about sex, not anymore, and he knows Bull knows it.

Bull looks at him a long time, his face as perfectly blank as it's ever been, giving nothing away. Cullen realizes he's holding his breath and forces himself to inhale.

"Trust," Bull says eventually, and it's not even close to the answer Cullen was expecting.

"Trust?"

Bull seems to give the answer serious thought, studying Cullen's face. "Dorian trusts me not to take more control from him than he's willing to give. You trust me to take it all, and give it all back at the end."

Or maybe they are still talking about sex? Cullen starts to say something, to explain his original question better, but Bull isn't finished.

"You trust me," Bull says, "both of you trust me, with the thing you guard the most. You've fought and bled and sacrificed to be in control of your life, and then you hand that control over to me like a gift, even if it's only for a short time. I want to be able to trust you the same way. I want to know that you'll tell me what you need, and that you'll stay if I need something, or if Dorian needs something. I want to know that you won't walk away."

There's no need to add "again," that part Cullen understands just fine, but he's not sure about the rest of it. Or at least, he's not sure how he would prove something like that. He can't go back and re-make those decisions, no matter how much he wants to now.

He grabs the only thing he can think of and says hesitantly, "I haven't..." He falters, embarrassed, and tries again. "It's only been you and Dorian since...."

Bull is smiling, but he's also shaking his head, and Cullen stops without trying to finish the sentence. "That doesn't mean much under the Qun. I may be Tal-Vashoth now, but I haven't left that part behind." His hand flexes on his knee, once, before he stills it. "And before you ask, it's not some public declaration I want, either."

"Then what-?"

"The only thing I want is to know is that you'll be here when it matters."

"But I don't know how to prove that," Cullen says, frustrated.

"One day at a time, kadan, the same way you learned to trust me."

There have been other opportunities to ask about that word, and Cullen's always avoided them. Probably because he knew he wouldn't like the answer, before. He licks his lips and asks, "Kadan?"

Bull examines his face again, more closely than before. It's an intent look, terrifying as it measures every inch of him and weighs everything he's ever said or done. "Kadan," Bull says after a long silence. "My heart."

The look he gives Cullen now is the same one he wore in the library, after Dorian returned from Redcliffe and his father: it asks a question, and promises no judgment whichever way he answers. Cullen hardly feels stronger than he did then, feels weaker in so many ways, but he does know how to learn from his mistakes.

His lips form the unfamiliar word without giving it voice, testing it the way he tested katoh the first time he heard it, and for much the same reason. It's a word with weight, not to be used lightly. "Kadan," he says, when he's sure he'll say it right. Not just the right sound, but the right emotion.

Only after he's said it does he realize how neatly Bull has brought the conversation around in a circle. A month ago, even two weeks ago, he would have been miles from this room already, in spirit if not in body. Right now he's terrified, but he has no desire to run. Instead, he kneels in front of Bull despite the protests from his joints and puts a hand on Bull's knee.

One of Bull's hands touches Cullen's face, thumb brushing against his lips, and Cullen says against it, "You call Dorian kadan, too."

"And I mean it, just as much as when I say it to you," Bull says. There's a hint of uncertainty in his voice that Cullen's never heard before, and never wants to hear again.

He smiles against the pad of Bull's thumb. "A bit greedy, don't you think? Who needs two hearts?"

"I do," Bull says gravely, and Cullen has a moment of panic, wondering if his words sounded serious instead of teasing. Then Bull laughs and pulls him up to tumble both of them onto the bed with Cullen on top. His hands move over Cullen's skin, rough and soothing, and Cullen drifts a little, just at the edge of sleep.

"Almost dawn," Bull murmurs. "Time for me to go." He nudges Cullen, the message clear.

Cullen doesn't move. "Do you want to go?"

"No," Bull answers immediately. "But I also don't mind, if that's what you want."

"Stay," he says, and that word is as terrifying as "kadan," but he means it just as much.

"It doesn't matter to me if no one ever knows but the three of us," Bull says. "There's only one thing I want." His arm around Cullen's waist makes it clear what that is.

Cullen still doesn't move, and neither of them says anything else until sunshine is streaking through the gaps in the roof to cast alternating patterns of light and shadow across their skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That next (and last!) chapter will probably go up Tuesday or Wednesday. It's mostly done, I'm just beating a few last sections into submission.
> 
> On an unrelated note, tomorrow will officially be the one-year anniversary of the first time I put fingers to keyboard to write fanfic (I have a spreadsheet, I keep track of weird shit). Took me four months to write 15,000 words, and when I was done, I thought, "That was fun, but I probably won't ever write any more." Uh- _huh_. We see how well that worked.


	22. Tho' Much is Taken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'  
> We are not now that strength which in old days  
> Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;  
> One equal temper of heroic hearts,  
> Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will  
> To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
> 
> Alfred Lord Tennyson, "Ulysses"

Later that morning, Cullen tries to set everything else aside as he surveys the paperwork overtaking his desk, but it isn't easy. His conversation with Bull intrudes at odd moments, and he has to ask Mairyn to repeat herself more than once after introspection gets the better of him. She takes it in stride, Maker bless her, and as the morning passes, Cullen gradually turns his attention outward, back to the Inquisition and its army. By the time a runner delivers the latest dispatches, he's almost regained his focus, until he sees the letter on top, addressed to him personally in a hand he recognizes instantly. Mia.

It's been weeks since he last heard from her, and even longer since she last heard from him. Familial guilt twinges in his chest, growing worse as he reads her letter. She's completely herself: jumping easily from family news to nagging him to local gossip, filling an entire page when he struggles to write a few sentences.

Finished with the letter, he re-folds it carefully along the creases, picking off the last of the wax that sealed it as he does so. He sits a while, tapping the folded letter against his chin and thinking: about Mia, about Bull, about Dorian.

"Sir?" Mairyn interrupts cautiously, and Cullen realizes his attention has wandered once again. Still, it may have wandered, but it's somehow wandered its way into something almost coherent, for the first time all morning. Possibly for the first time in weeks.

"My apologies," he says, setting down the letter. "What were you saying?"

"Just that you're due in the war room soon."

"Is it that late already?" he asks, standing before she can answer. He's almost surprised that the act of standing doesn't scatter his thoughts again, but it doesn't, and the walk to the main part of the keep only settles him more.

At the war table, Cullen waits until the most pressing business is finished, and the conversation has turned to trivialities. He clears his throat, and watches from the edges of his vision as three carefully controlled faces turn toward him, hiding anxiety with varying degrees of success.

The arch of the doorway behind the Inquisitor's head isn't terribly interesting, but Cullen fixes his gaze on it to avoid meeting anyone's eyes. He's standing at attention like a wayward recruit called to the Knight-Commander's office, and he has to clear his throat twice. "In the future," he begins, then has to pause to clear his throat a third time. "In the future, if you need me for something and you can't find me-"

"We'll check with Dorian," Josephine interrupts. She means to spare him the struggle, he knows she does, but her words only make it harder.

He clears his throat yet again and pushes on. "Check with Dorian, yes, but if you can't find him, or he doesn't know, or-" This time, he interrupts himself, cutting off the rambling before it gets out of hand. All the throat-clearing is beginning to hurt, but he does it one more time and rushes through the rest of what he needs to say before he turns coward. "If Dorian can't help, check with Bull."

_"There's only one thing I want,"_ Bull said.

Maybe it doesn't matter to Bull, but it matters to Cullen.

It's hard to read expressions when he's trying so hard not to meet anyone's eyes, but he does the best he can. The Inquisitor looks momentarily confused, then stunned. Josephine is wearing her Ambassador Face, politely interested while revealing nothing, and that she retreats behind that mask tells Cullen how much he's surprised her. Leliana looks like she's waiting for him to go on, to tell her something she doesn't already know. A part of Cullen curls in on itself in dread, wondering what else she knows.

He ignores that part of himself and says, "If there's nothing else you need, Inquisitor?"

"No, I think we're finished for today."

If the Inquisitor's voice is higher than normal, the words inflected almost into a question, Cullen ignores that, too.

"Until later, then," he says with a nod to the three of them, and makes his escape. They'll talk the second the door closes behind him, but he knew that before he started.

He doesn't feel lighter, exactly: this isn't a burden lifted, but another one taken on. Once word begins to spread--and he isn't naive enough to think that it won't--there will be speculation, and gossip, and at least one obscene song, if Cullen knows anything about soldiers. Still, he remembers the words Bull said to him, months ago at the top of the mage's tower: "Right is right."

This is right, for more reasons than he can count.

Dorian is waiting in the garden, sprawled in his chair by the chessboard with a book in his hands. He's not reading, though: his eyes are closed, his face turned up to catch what he can of the sunshine before the shadows move over him. Cullen stands by one of the gazebo's supporting pillars and watches him for a moment, careful not to block the light. There's a bottle beside his chair, but the top is still sealed and Dorian's cup is empty.

"Good morning, Commander," Dorian says, without opening his eyes.

Cullen smiles. "How did you know it was me?"

"While it is true that I have hordes of admirers who come just to gaze longingly upon me, most of them dress more fashionably than you."

"You can hear fashionable?"

"Of course," Dorian says, greatly offended. "Can't you?" Then he smiles, still without opening his eyes. "Also, most of them don't jingle quite so charmingly as you."

Why is he surprised that Dorian recognizes the way his armor rattles and creaks? This last week, Cullen knew who was by his bed even when he was half asleep.

Sitting there with his head tipped back and his eyes closed, Dorian has given him the perfect opening. One step up into the gazebo, one step to Dorian's side. Dorian's eyes snap open wide when Cullen's hand cups the side of his head, thumb coming to rest just in front of his ear.

"Wha-" is all Dorian manages before Cullen bends to kiss him.

It's a quick kiss, nothing inappropriate for a public place in the middle of the day, and Dorian is too stunned to try making it more. His eyes are almost coming out of his head as Cullen circles the table to take his own seat, and there's quite a bit of whispering from the rest of the garden. Cullen ignores the whispers and watches Dorian.

He's actually managed to shock Dorian speechless, and Cullen smiles again. "Good morning," he says, and he can't resist pitching his voice low, as if they're lying in bed together.

Dorian _blushes_. It's much less obvious on his skin than it is on Cullen's, but it's definitely there. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, closes it again.

"Your move," Cullen says, his voice still low and intimate. No wonder Dorian has always teased him so unmercifully: it's exhilarating, watching a more than competent adult reduced to stuttering and blushing by a few words and a look. Well, a few words, a look, and a kiss.

Something sparks in Dorian's eyes, and he leans forward, propping his elbow on his knee and his chin on his palm. His cheeks may still be a little redder than normal, but his voice is steady and just as low as Cullen's when he says, "If it's my move, then there are a great number of things I'd rather do than play chess."

Cullen feels his face heat, even as he laughs. "But chess is what we're here for."

"A pity," Dorian says, and looks down to move one of his pawns. Without looking up from the board, he murmurs, "That was...unexpected."

"Unexpected?" Cullen asks. "Or unwelcome?" He's reasonably sure he knows the answer, but the unreasonable part of him flinches again, just as it did at the war table with Leliana looking at him. He continues to ignore that part of him and moves one of his pieces across the board.

"If it's unwelcome, you'll know," Dorian says, still not looking at him. "And you didn't have to do it."

"Yes, I did."

"You haven't tried to deny the rumors." Dorian makes his own move, then lets his hand rest on the table, fingers drumming lightly. "That's more than I hoped for, given everything else."

Cullen remembers his first night in Bull's room, on his knees, wanting without knowing what he wanted. Even then, he understood the difference between sucking Bull's cock and letting Bull fuck his mouth: participating willingly, instead of allowing something to be done to him.

He's not sure he can explain that to Dorian, and certainly not in the middle of Skyhold's garden. Instead, he reaches across the table and stills Dorian's tapping fingers with his palm. "It was something I needed to do," he says, and waits for Dorian to look at him before adding, "It was something I _wanted_ to do."

Because this is also right. People will talk, and some of them will question his competence and his dedication, but he's given enough to the Inquisition, and to the Chantry before that. He wants something for himself. He wants _this_ for himself.

Dorian takes a deep breath and lets it out on a sigh as he slides his hand out from under Cullen's. "Since you're determined to play chess and not do something more entertaining, I believe it's your move."

For the first time, Cullen realizes that his kiss may have been welcome, but it's also made Dorian uncomfortable. "I didn't mean to embarrass you," he says, a little awkwardly.

"You didn't," Dorian says, meeting his eyes.

"Liar," Cullen says softly, and Dorian half smiles.

"I wouldn't say that you embarrassed me," Dorian says. He glances away, then looks back at Cullen. "But I was raised an Altus mage, with parents who had the highest hopes for my future. How often do you think any Altus showed true affection in public?"

"Not often?"

"Not often. No one would ever put their vulnerability on display like that. And you and I?" Dorian flicks his fingers at Cullen and then at himself. "In Tevinter, we would be ostracized for what you just did. In all likelihood, within the week one or both of us would conveniently fall victim to some 'random' act of violence. Our families would grieve so sincerely for us, in public."

"But we're not in Tevinter."

"I had, in fact, noticed that very thing. I think it's the cold, and the smell of wet dog, that gives it away." There's no sting to the habitual complaint.

"I don't smell anything," Cullen says, just for the snort of aristocratic disdain it gets from Dorian.

"You're Ferelden, of course you don't." Again, his eyes dart away and back, as if he's fighting himself to maintain eye contact. "We may not be in Tevinter, but do you really think I can shed everything I was taught just because I want to? Until I was almost twenty, no one even addressed my...preferences directly. They didn't need to, because everything I saw and heard drove the lessons into me long before I understood what it truly meant, that I wanted men instead of women."

"I won't do it again, if you don't want me to."

Dorian arches that oh-so-expressive eyebrow at him. "You've never wanted two contradictory things at once?" This time when he looks away, his gaze stays on that middle distance rather than returning to Cullen's. He says to the far wall, "I'm not asking you to refrain from kissing me in public. I'm explaining that if you startle me with it, you may not get exactly the reaction you were hoping for. That doesn't mean I don't want it, just that I need a little warning, or what I hear as you do it is my father's voice saying 'You are no son of mine.' It's..." He pauses, and takes a breath so deep the leather of his jacket creaks. "It's not exactly my favorite memory, shall we say?"

"I'm sorry," Cullen says. "I didn't think."

Dorian shrugs his bare shoulder. "Why would you? It's one of the things you take for granted here in the south, that a man might prefer other men. The details of who and where and when can still set tongues wagging, but that's it." His smile comes back, gently mocking both of them. "Bull being Bull, I never had to tell him. I would have said something to warn you, but it didn't seem likely that you would stumble into this particular trap."

"And I stumbled in with both feet, didn't I?" Cullen's still not sure what he's supposed to take away from this conversation: should he avoid touching Dorian in public or not?

"Yes, well." Dorian leans across the table to hook a finger in the front of Cullen's shirt. "Feel free to stumble into me whenever you like, Commander." He pulls Cullen close enough to kiss him, and it's exactly the kind of kiss Cullen avoided earlier, Dorian's tongue sliding against his until Cullen's grateful for the cover his coat provides.

The whispers from the rest of the garden are now a lot louder than whispers.

Red to the tips of his ears, Cullen pulls away. Slowly. "You do like to push everything just that one step too far, don't you?" His hand is on Dorian's cheek, though he doesn't remember putting it there. He slides it up, rubbing the soft fuzz of hair just above Dorian's ear.

"I'll show you how far I can push," Dorian says with a smirk.

Cullen laughs and releases him. "Later. Right now, we're playing chess."

They play four games, saying little, Dorian's foot resting against Cullen's under the table. The wine stays in its bottle, and when Cullen finally rises to return to work, he takes it with him. In response to Dorian's protest, Cullen smirks and says, "Why don't you come get it tonight?"

He walks away before Dorian can answer, because he knows that's the only way he'll get the last word. A tiny shock of electricity catches him a few feet away, and Cullen looks back. Dorian appears completely absorbed in his book, but he hasn't quite managed to contain his smile. Cullen feels his own smile broadening as he turns back toward the stairs.

With his foot on the bottom step, he hesitates, his smile fading. Most days when he leaves the garden, this is the way he goes, but it's also the way that will take him past his tower. Past the _mages'_ tower. Today, the thought of walking by that door fills him with dread, and though he knows it makes him a coward, he turns away to take the door that will lead him to the hall instead.

He's embarrassed by his weakness, but less than he might have expected. After all, it gains him nothing to walk past the mages' tower today. As Skyhold's commander, he needs to be able to go anywhere within its walls without flinching, but the castle isn't under attack. Why waste his strength on the principle of the thing?

He almost manages to convince himself.

Back in his office, Cullen surveys his desk as he settles into his chair. There are a hundred things demanding his attention, but right now, one is more important than all the others. He takes a deep breath and reaches for a blank sheet of paper.

> _Dear Mia,_

He pauses, here where he always gives up, unable to put his life into words that don't sound self-pitying or despairing. Frightening her has never been his aim, and he's always let that hold him back. But she's a grown woman, and she loves him. She deserves more than what he's given her in the past.

He puts his pen back to the page.

> _Dear Mia,_
> 
> _Corypheus is dead. I think you must know that by now, but in case you heard the news and took it for wishful thinking on someone's part, I want you to know that it's true. Corypheus is dead._
> 
> _The Inquisition lives on, though, and I plan to remain with it in Skyhold. There's so much good we've already done, and so much more we can do. I want to be part of that, as much as I ever wanted to be a templar. The Inquisitor is a leader worthy of anyone, and I can think of no one else I'd rather serve, even if the templars were returned to their former strength tomorrow._
> 
> _I have no desire now to go back, but leaving the templars wasn't as easy as I could have wished. You were so relieved when I left them, but there was something I didn't tell you: leaving the templars meant leaving behind the lyrium. There are ways to get it, of course, especially with the chaos Corypheus sowed, but I felt I owed it to the Inquisition to be free of any chains. It was difficult, and I don't think it will ever be easy._
> 
> _I didn't want you to worry when there was nothing you could do, and so I've kept this from you until now. I know you'll be angry with me, and I don't blame you. I should have trusted you, but for a time, I didn't trust myself. I'm fortunate to have found people who never lost faith in me, and I'm learning from them. I hope you can understand, and forgive me._
> 
> _All my love,_  
>  _Cullen_

 

The letter finished, he blows on the paper to dry the ink, then folds and seals it, leaving it with the rest of his outgoing letters. Mairyn will see that it gets to the right courier.

When Mia receives it, the length alone will make her think he's dying, or been replaced by an imposter. The response may be Mia herself, in person, rather than by letter, and the thought of her in Skyhold is thrilling and terrifying together. She'll like Dorian, he knows, and will thoroughly enjoy beating him at chess while he cheats. What she'll make of the Iron Bull is harder to predict, and what she'll make of this...whatever it is between the three of them, Cullen doesn't dare to even hazard a guess.

So his finished letter doesn't leave him feeling any lighter than he felt after his conversations with the Inquisitor and with Dorian, but he does feel that same sense of satisfaction as when he's finished a difficult task. It may make his life more complicated for a while, but she had a right to know.

None of the rest of the papers on his desk are half so difficult to deal with as that letter was to write, and he's just finishing them as Bull comes through his door.

"Have a nice talk with the Inquisitor this morning?" Bull asks, closing the door behind himself. He's carrying a basket, and if it was ridiculously domestic for Dorian, it's even more so for Bull, whose size reduces the basket to a child's toy.

Then Cullen realizes what Bull said, and looks at him. "How did you know?"

"Leliana came to see me," Bull says as he drops the basket on Cullen's desk and begins pulling food out of it.

"Leliana?" Cullen asks, surprised. "What did she want?"

Bull gives him an amused look. "To tell me that if I hurt you, no one would ever find my body."

"Andraste's flaming ashes," Cullen mutters. "What did you say?"

"Weeellll, I thought about saying that you liked it when I hurt you..."

Cullen groans and puts his head in his hands.

"...but I didn't." Bull tugs hard at a curl of his hair. "I told her you probably wouldn't appreciate her interfering in your life."

"I'm sure that was well received," Cullen says without raising his head.

"About as well as you'd expect," Bull agrees. "But she didn't try to stab me." There's the sound of something scraping over the desk, and Cullen looks up to find Bull with his fingers wrapped around Dorian's bottle of wine. "What's this?"

"Dorian's," Cullen admits. "I took him from him this morning."

"And he let you?"

"I, ah, told him to come get it tonight," Cullen says, blushing.

Bull laughs, but sobers quickly. "You can't fix him, kadan, any more than he can fix you."

Cullen takes the bottle from Bull and turns it between his hands, studying the liquid as it moves inside the glass. "Am I supposed to just sit by and watch him poison himself?"

"The two of you," Bull mutters under his breath, then says more loudly, "Until he wants the antidote, you can wave it in his face all day long without doing any good."

"What do I do until he asks?"

"Nothing," Bull says, then shakes his head when Cullen jerks back. "Not quite nothing. You can make the antidote more appealing than the poison."

"Most people don't need to be convinced of that."

Bull's gaze is thoughtful. "Like most people don't need to be convinced that jumping off the mages' tower is a good solution to their problems?"

Cullen flinches, glancing away. He's afraid for a second that Bull will try to touch him and so set off another embarrassing burst of tears, but Bull gives him time and space to gather himself back together. "Fair point," he manages at last, setting the bottle down on his desk with more care than strictly necessary. "So there's nothing I can do."

"Well, you can always try offering him a distraction." Bull is smirking when Cullen looks at him. "I've had some success with that on other occasions."

Laughing shakily, Cullen presses his fist to his chest in an acknowledging salute. "A distraction. Right."

Bull picks up the wine bottle again, hefting it thoughtfully. "Just taking this away doesn't stop him from finding more, and you can't hide every bottle of wine and cask of beer in the entire castle. He has to want to stop."

Cullen shivers. For a second, he's on his knees at the top of the mages' tower again, the wind and the stone cold around him. Bull sets the bottle back on his desk with a thump, and the memory vanishes. His office isn't exactly warm, but it's far warmer than the top of the tower.

"When we came back from the Wilds," Bull says, looking down at his hand on the bottle, "Dorian wanted to follow you around everywhere, to be sure nothing would happen to upset you."

This is news to Cullen, who feels his eyebrows climbing for his hairline. "How was he planning on explaining that?"

"He hadn't made it that far," Bull says, shifting his gaze to Cullen's bookshelf. "And I told him not to do it, because if you really decided you were done, you'd find a way to make it happen, and he'd just wear himself out for no reason." He's still not looking at Cullen, who realizes it's for his sake more than for Bull's.

Cullen steels himself and comes around the desk, stepping directly into Bull's line of sight. Bull smiles, and meets his eyes squarely. "I had a bad few minutes when we couldn't find you, wondering if I was going to have the rest of my life to regret talking Dorian out of his plan."

"I'm sorry," Cullen says, and means it. It's nothing like the half-incoherent apologies he threw out the night after Corypheus was defeated, when he was grabbing for anything he could find as he tried to put the pain and the emptiness into words, rather than truly asking forgiveness.

"That's like an injured soldier apologizing for bleeding on me," Bull points out. "Just...try not to get stabbed again, and we'll call it even."

"I can work on that," Cullen says. Then curiosity compels him to ask, "If you went to all that effort to talk Dorian out of it before, why are you doing it now? One of you is always here, if Mairyn isn't."

"You walked down off that tower," Bull says immediately, as if the answer should be obvious. "I didn't pull you off it."

"It wasn't easy," Cullen says, so quietly he can barely hear himself.

"So?" Bull asks. "You still did it."

"I don't know if I'll be able to do it again, next time."

"Maybe between us, we can keep there from being a next time."

That's more than a little terrifying, when his strength is so tenuous and erratic that he couldn't even walk past the mages' tower earlier today. Rather than try to find words to explain what he suspects Bull already knows, he moves forward to rest his forehead on Bull's shoulder.

As Bull's arms come up around him, the door opens, and a man's voice, half familiar, says, "Commander?"

Cullen stiffens and starts to pull away by habit. He catches himself before the movement is more than a jerk, and deliberately leans back into Bull. "Is it important?" he asks sharply, without looking up. He's recognized the voice now: one of the templars who tried to get himself killed by sneaking into Skyhold.

The man starts to say something, but then Mairyn is there, talking over him. "My apologies, Commander," she says, pitching her voice to drown out the templar's. "I thought I'd made it clear to everyone that you weren't to be disturbed."

There's the sound of a scuffle by the door, and the templar begs, "Please, Commander, I need your help."

Cullen finally steps away from Bull to look at the man in his doorway. Mairyn has his arm twisted up behind him in a grip that has to be excruciating (Cullen wonders if she learned that maneuver from Bull), but the templar is far enough gone that he doesn't appear to notice. "Please," he says again, as soon as Cullen looks at him.

"Listen to me very carefully," Cullen says, clenching his fists behind his back to keep his voice from cracking. "I can't help you. I can barely help myself."

"But-!"

"Look at me!" Cullen barks, though the man's eyes haven't left his face. "Look. At. Me."

The templar blinks, frowns, then blinks again.

"I can't help you," Cullen says, softer this time, willing the man to understand, and believe. "Not right now."

For a moment, Cullen thinks he'll be required to fit everything into words, and he braces himself, but then the templar sags in Mairyn's grip, wincing as if he's just noticing the pull in his shoulder. She doesn't wait for him to collect himself as she hustles him back out the door, tipping Cullen a nod in place of the salute she can't give with her hands full.

"Maker's breath," Cullen says when the door is shut. He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, and the headache starting behind them.

"Does that happen often?" Bull asks.

"That's the first time one's actually made it this far," Cullen says, dropping his hands. "I can't help them. I _can't_."

"I didn't say you should."

"I feel guilty every time I see one of them," Cullen mutters. "But they want...they want to declare some kind of Exalted March on their lyrium addiction, and they want me to be their symbol, and I don't have anything to give them." He rubs the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension there. "I hope I will someday, but right now? I just don't."

Bull says nothing, but he's smiling a little, as if there was something important in those words. Cullen tries to recall what he said, and when he does, he returns Bull's smile with one of his own. It might be shaky, but it is a smile.

Hope. He hopes.

It's been a long time since he hoped for anything except the dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it, though I've still got some snippets (probably 3 to 4 more one-shots) that I'll be working on over the next few months and adding to the series. One is already up [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4064491) if your day needs a little plotless smut.
> 
> ETA: There's also now [an epilogue](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4085719).
> 
> Thank you all for reading along! Your comments and your kudos have meant so much to me. I'm a failure as a writer because I can't find the words to say how much, so I'll keep it simple: _**THANK YOU!!!**_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Exit Light [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4879408) by [Opalsong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opalsong/pseuds/Opalsong)




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